Mind Game
by LindaO
Summary: John Reese has always protected people. He has his reasons. Usually his overprotective instincts are an asset. But sometimes they just make things worse. The new Number and his brother need Reese's help, but only if he can keep from scaring them to death. Casefic, S2 after "Dead Reckoning" with some spoilers. Adult language and reference to drug use. Next in the Chaos AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

"How come you keep dragging me to bars?" Fusco grumbled.

"Bars are where people get into trouble, Lionel." Reese kept his attention on the dance floor. He avoided staring at anyone in particular, kept his glance moving, casual. But he mostly focused on a couple at the center of the floor. Adam Kramer and Kathy Gregs. They'd been dating three weeks. They seemed happy.

Neither of them danced very well, but they didn't seem to care.

They had a table at the side of the floor. Reese watched while the waiter dropped off a round of fresh drinks that Adam and Kathy hadn't ordered. "There," he said quietly. "Second table from the left."

Fusco turned his barstool and scanned the floor, credibly appearing to be checking for available women. "What about it?"

"Wait."

A woman stood up from the bar and walked slowly around the edge of the dance floor. She had red hair and big round sunglasses, though the club was dim. When she got to the empty table she paused and looked around. Then her hand came out of her pocket and hovered over the drinks.

Fusco glanced at Reese. "Poison?"

"Yes."

"Ex-girlfriend?"

"Yes."

The detective sighed, stood up, and waded through the dancers to detain the woman as she headed for the door.

Reese stayed where he was and watched. Fusco caught up to the woman just in front of the bouncer, and a quick badge flash enlisted the man's help. They got the woman in handcuffs, took off her sunglasses and her wig. They recovered the drinks as evidence, gathered Kramer and Gregs as witnesses. Fusco called for transport.

Attempted murder, plain and simple. Lots of evidence. No one hurt. Clean. Exactly the way their operations were supposed to work.

Reese tapped his earpiece as he slipped out the back door. "Finch?"

"Everything alright, Mr. Reese?"

"All taken care of. Anything new?"

"Not yet."

"Good. I'm going home. See you in the morning."

"Sleep well, Mr. Reese."

Reese tapped the earpiece again and strolled back to his car. A black-and-white pulled up in front of the club, running lights but not sirens. In a moment a second arrived.

Everything was taken care of. He hadn't had to draw his weapon. Hadn't even had to throw a punch. It was all good.

He felt twitchy. He'd been prepared to move, to fight. Built up a little adrenalin. It hadn't been needed, and it would take a while to wear off. A hot shower and a light snack would help. But whatever he did, he knew he wouldn't get to sleep for a while.

_This is good,_ he told himself firmly. _This is how it's supposed to be._ He wasn't disappointed. That would be perverse.

The signs said the park across from his loft was closed after 11 p.m., but Reese changed his clothes and went down to shoot hoops for a while anyhow.

He'd never been one much for following the rules.

* * *

Avery Fornaris studied the new data with a practiced eye. He'd had his doubts, but as his eye scanned to the bottom of the screen, a grim smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. He picked up his phone.

His source answered on the first ring. "Well?"

"It's good," Fornaris allowed. "It's quite good."

"Just what you needed. As promised."

"And you can get this sort of work steadily, reliably?"

"I told you. I've got live-in geniuses."

Fornaris nodded to himself. He reached his keyboard, brought up another screen. "I think, then, that we can do business together. I'm sending the retainer now." He pressed the button, transferred the money. "I'll be in touch."

"I'll look forward to it."

* * *

**1974**

Johnny reached up and slicked his hair down, unconsciously mimicking the gesture his mother made a dozen times a day. He made his way to the back of the classroom and sat at the desk with his name on it. All the desks had name signs on them, printed in big letters on colorful paper. His sign was red. He liked green better, but he hadn't said anything. It was the third day of first grade.

"Johnny?" the teacher called as the other children filed in. "Can I see you for a minute?"

The boy next to him made a quiet _ooooooh_ noise. The _you're in trouble now_ noise. Johnny stood up and made his way quickly to the front of the class. He tried to think of what he'd done that he might be in trouble for. He'd never gotten in trouble in school before. He'd tried really hard to follow the rules. The teacher's name was Mrs. McGill and she seemed nice enough so far, but the older kids said she was strict and sometimes mean. He didn't want to get on her bad side.

She glanced at him when he reached her desk. "Oh, good," she said, like she was surprised he was there. She took his arm and led him to the furthest corner, up by the window. "I need to talk to you about something."

Johnny nodded seriously. "Yes, ma'am?"

"I know that your mother calls you Johnny, and all the kids."

He frowned, confused. He wasn't in trouble because of his _name_, was he? "Yes, ma'am."

"We have a new student," Mrs. McGill continued. "And his name is also Johnny. I'm afraid with two of you it will be confusing. So I wanted to ask you if it would be alright if we called you John. It's probably just for this year."

"Um …" He looked at her. It seemed sort of unfair, since he was here first. But it really didn't matter to him, either. John sounded kind of grown up. "Sure. That'd be fine. Ma'am."

She gave him a real smile. "Thank you, Johnny. John. That's very nice of you. I'm sure the other boy will appreciate it. He's rather … special."

_He must be,_ Johnny thought, _if he gets to keep his name and I have to give it up._ But he shrugged. "Um, ma'am? Do I need a new name tag for my desk?"

"I guess you will, won't you?"

He took a deep breath. "Would it be okay — could it be green?"

Mrs. McGill smiled again. "Of course it can, John. I'll make it right now. Go take your seat."

"Yes, ma'am."

Johnny —_John_, he corrected mentally — walked back to his desk happily. Tony, the boy beside him, made a little sneering face. "Get in trouble?" he asked.

"No."

"Teacher's pet."

John sat down. Tony had older brothers and a smart mouth. John's mom had told him to stay away from him.

The bell rang and the children settled into their desks. Mrs. McGill was leaning over her desk, writing. John knew it was his new name sign. Then the door opened and a tall thin man pushed a wheelchair into the room. A very small boy was strapped into the chair. He had to be strapped because if he hadn't been he would have fallen out. His whole body was bent and twisted, and he seemed to wiggle and jerk constantly.

The class went dead silent. Everyone stared.

The boy in the chair smiled and jerked.

_Oh_, John thought, _that__ kind of special._ He was glad he hadn't made a fuss about his name.

Mrs. McGill looked up and smiled at the boy and the man. "I have a desk there in the back," she said, pointing.

John looked to his right and noted for the first time that the empty desk beside him had no chair.

The man tried to maneuver the wheelchair between the desks, but they were a little too close together. The two girls in the front row scooted apart a little to let them through. But the boys in the next row didn't get it. Mrs. McGill was still temporarily distracted at her desk. John knew he wasn't supposed to get out of his seat without permission. He did anyhow. He moved to the front of the row and pushed the one boy's desk aside just enough to let the wheelchair pass. The third row kids moved on their own. He had to move the forth row a little, and then the boy's desk itself. When he turned around and dropped into his own chair, the teacher was watching him.

She nodded her approval.

"Teacher's pet," Tony whispered.

"Class," Mrs. McGill said, walking toward them, "this is our new student, Johnny. He will have an attendant with him between classes, but I expect you all to help him out whenever you can."

This was met with mostly snickers from the boys and murmured of agreement from the girls.

"And our first Johnny," the teacher went on, "we're going to call John for the rest of the year." She folded the green construction paper long-ways and set it on John's desk. Then she moved his red sign over to the new boy's. "If you have any questions, you can see me privately at recess."

Tony shot his hand in the air. "Hey, teacher, how come we have to …"

"Privately," she said sharply, "at recess." She walked back to her desk. "Now get out your math books."

"Gimp," Tony muttered.

John glared at him. He got out his math book. Then he looked at Johnny. The boy was looking around, smiling still. He seemed very happy to be at school, or maybe with other people. The man who'd brought him in was sitting in a chair in the back corner. He started to get up, but John reached into tote on the back of the wheelchair and got out Johnny's book for him. He opened it to the right page and put it on the desk in front of him.

Johnny looked at the book, then at him. "Could you …" he began, his hand waving wildly.

John frowned, then figured out what he wanted. He slid the book toward the front of the desk a few inches. The angle made it easier for the boy to see it. "There?"

"Yes." Johnny worked at the next word for a second. "Thanks."

"Sure. Just tell me what you need."

"Teacher's pet," Tony muttered from his other side. "Gimp lover."

"Shut up," John growled at him.

If Johnny'd heard him, he didn't seem to care. He just kept smiling.

* * *

**2013**

By the next day, the agitation had vanished and Reese could enjoy the peaceful outcome of the investigation. The library was quiet. Finch's keyboard tapped steadily. John cleaned his handguns, one after another, on newspapers spread on a side table. He didn't hurry. The rhythm of the morning was soothing. The smell of the oil, the worn softness of the rag. The satisfying snap of pieces clicking back into place. The old habits of his hands, quick, competent. Muscle memory. He glanced down. Three more weapons to go, and then perhaps he'd take go for a run before lunch.

Provided, of course, that the unpredictable Machine didn't decide to interrupt his plans.

The keyboard sounds paused. "Is that really necessary?" Finch complained.

Reese didn't bother to look up. "It's important to take care of your equipment, Finch," he answered mildly.

"What?"

"You run your back-ups and I clean my weapons."

"I wasn't talking to you. I was talking to this … beast."

Smokey, the cat they'd borrowed to rid the library of mice, was standing on Finch's desk between the genius and his keyboard. Finch waved her away. She stretched, arching her back elegantly. Then she lay down on the keys.

The monitor behind her jumped and scrolled with nonsensical input.

"Stop, stop!" Finch said. He slid his hands reluctantly under the cat and picked her up, letting her legs dangle. She meowed in his face, much more loudly than a cat her size should have been able to. Bear bounced to his feet and hurried over to see what was troubling her. "Aren't you supposed to be hunting?" Harold leaned awkwardly and put the cat on the floor.

Bear nosed her. Smokey sniffed at him indulgently, then moved away. The dog followed closely, still nudging her with his nose. She jumped up onto Reese's table to escape.

"Is she getting rid of the mice?" Reese asked. He stroked the cat's sleek gray fur. When he and Bear had found her, she'd been small enough to fit in his hand. Now she was nearly full grown.

"I don't know." Finch shook his head at the screen and set about undoing the cat's input. "Christine said she brought her the mouse heads at the café, but she hasn't brought me any." He glanced back at the cat. "I suppose I should count myself lucky."

"Hmmm." The cat started to push the gun parts aside, evidently intending to nap there instead. "I don't think so, Smokey," Reese said. He lifted her up, with one hand under her backside, and put her over his shoulder like a baby. She immediately began to purr, loudly. Her belly felt full and round. Christine had had her spayed months before, so he knew the cat wasn't pregnant. "I think you're overfeeding her."

Finch shook his head. "She barely touches her cat food."

"Well, she's eating something, then." He leaned back, still with the cat on his shoulder, and resumed his work. "I'm surprised we haven't seen more of Christine. I figured we'd have to drag her out of here feet-first."

Harold made a small annoyed noise at his computer. "She's been busy."

"You've talked to her?"

"Hmmm. Monday. I asked her to lunch, but she's tied up with things."

"Is she working on the apartment?"

"As far as I know."

Finch was clearly distracted, only half-listening. Reese let the conversation drop. He tried to think back to last time he'd seen Christine Fitzgerald. Christmas night? It couldn't have been that long. But he couldn't remember her being at the library since he'd gotten out of Rikers, anyhow. The bomb vest …

He shook it off impatiently.

Of course, she might have been there to see Finch while he was out.

Harold certainly didn't see concerned about her absence. But Reese was. It wasn't like Christine to stay away from Finch, his secrets, his computers, or his books. Or, he was pointedly reminded when Smokey dug her front claws casually into his shoulder, her cat. "Stop," he said mildly.

Smokey licked his neck. Then she tilted her head a little and began to bathe his ear in earnest. "Stop," Reese protested again, laughing.

"I'm sure that's a sign of affection," Finch said drily, without looking up.

"It tickles." John plucked the cat carefully off his shoulder — she still had her claws lightly into his skin – and put her on the floor. Bear immediately pounced toward her. She arched her back in a stretch, then strolled off. The dog followed, eager to play. Smokey stopped and hissed at him. He retreated, until she looked away, then eagerly moved closer again. The cat hissed again, then growled. Bear dropped to his belly, wagging his tail furiously.

"I don't think she wants to play right now, Bear," John advised.

The dog looked at him, then went after the cat a third time.

Smokey extended one elegant claw and swiped him across the nose. Bear yipped. The cat arched up her back to its fullest extent and growled warningly.

Reese watched closely, ready to intercede if necessary. Bear was certainly perfectly aware that he could bite the little cat in half, but since he was clearly unwilling to do so, he took the only step he could that would prevent her from hurting him further: He rolled over on his back, exposing his throat and his belly, placing himself at her mercy.

Smokey shook herself and sauntered off into the stacks. Bear rolled to his feet and looked after her, then sadly walked to John's side and sat down. Reese reached down and rubbed his ears, then checked his nose. There was a faint red scratch, but it wasn't actively bleeding. "Women, boy," John told him sympathetically. "No means no."

The dog sighed and sank to the floor.

"Does that happen often?" Reese asked.

Finch nodded. "About once a day."

"Poor boy."

"Check in an hour," Finch said, "they'll be curled up in bed together."

"That's a woman, all right." John finished reassembling the gun, then put the others aside. "C'mon, Bear, let's go for a walk."

The dog jumped up eagerly and went to fetch his leash.

"Call me if you need me," Reese said.

Finch muttered some vague answer, not much more than a grunt. John was pretty sure the genius didn't even know they were gone.

* * *

Dylan Roth saw his supervisor coming out of the corner of his eye. He kept his head down, concentrating on the conveyor belt in front of him. The work was mind-numbingly simple, but it paid okay and it was steady. He couldn't afford to lose this job.

He hoped Garrison would walk right past him. He didn't, of course. He stopped at Dylan's elbow. He had a timecard in his hand.

Dylan glanced up at him, then focused on the small pieces again. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Hart again?" Garrison asked quietly.

"His bus was late. I had to wait with him.

"Can't you get a neighbor to wait with him?"

Dylan shook his head. "I tried, but he kinda flipped out on her. Routine, you know. Bad enough that the bus was late, without changing anything else." And also, he thought, he couldn't afford it.

Garrison made a face, looked around. "I had to write you up last time, Dylan. You've got to be on time."

"I know." He shrugged. "I'm really sorry. Whatever you have to do, you know, I understand. You have your job to do, too." He looked up again, tried to keep the pleading look out of his eyes. He needed this job so badly.

Garrison sighed. "I fixed your punch," he said, very quietly. "You weren't late today."

Dylan blew out a breath. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

"Yeah, well. Be on time from now on. Or we'll both get canned."

"Thank you," Dylan said again.

The supervisor clapped his hand on the young man's shoulder. Then he moved off down the line.

Roth let himself sag with relief for one moment. And then he went back to mindless work that he was blessedly glad to still have.

* * *

Igor Zubec was behind the old bar, restacking coffee mugs after the morning rush. He grunted at Reese and the dog. "Coffee?"

"No, thanks. Is Christine around?"

"Nope."

"Know where she went?"

The barista shrugged. "She's been gone a couple days."

"That doesn't worry you?"

"Probably found herself some uniform to cuddle up with." The big man shrugged, nonchalant, but there was a sharpness in his eyes. "She's a grown woman. She does what she wants."

Reese nodded. He knew about Christine's habits and her preference for men in uniform. He tried to ignore the twinge in his chest, somewhere between concern and what might be jealousy. "When she shows up, have her give me a call, will you?"

Zubec studied him. They understood each other, he and John, in the way of old soldiers; they might not be friends, but they had a mutual respect and a common interest. "Sure."

He pulled out a business card, one of the assortment Harold had provided him. "If she _doesn't _show up in a day or so, let me know."

Zubec took the card. "Sure."

"Appreciate it."

Reese took the dog and went out. They'd already walked much further than he'd meant to, but it was sunny and unseasonably mild, and Bear had been largely stuck inside for weeks. His phone was silent, so there was no new Number. No reason to hurry back. He and Bear walked the remaining distance to the new building Finch had given to Christine just before the holidays.

There were new windows at every opening, and new high-quality steel doors at every entrance. Around the back, he found an empty dumpster parked on what would eventually be Christine Fitzgerald's lawn. The renovation was definitely underway.

But the building was closed up and there were no workers there. Reese glanced at his watch. It was late morning, but probably too early for lunch. The weather was decent, and the worksite was enclosed anyhow. There was no reason for work to be stopped.

It was New York City, Reese thought; building permits were notoriously hard to get, and even harder to get in a timely manner. That might explain the delay.

On the other hand, Christine's computer skills were exceptional; he doubted that she'd have any trouble creating her own permits as needed.

But there was definitely nothing happening on the site.

"Well," John said aloud.

Bear looked up at him expectantly.

"She's not here."

The dog sat down and waited.

"I don't think she's coming back today, boy." Reese pulled his phone out, then hesitated. He could call Christine — and say what? Call Finch? And again, say what? He didn't have any indication that she was in any kind of trouble. Zubec was probably right; she'd likely found some man in uniform with a three-day pass. He didn't particularly like that. But again, Zubec was right: She was a grown woman. And she was a damn good judge of character. She was probably okay.

He stood very still, closed his eyes, and let himself _feel_ the situation. He didn't like that she was gone, or that construction on her new apartment had stopped. Or that she was probably rolling around the sheets with a relative stranger. But there was nothing that told him she was in trouble. Not even his instinct was saying that.

Nothing actionable.

He put the phone away.

Still idly curious, he wandered across the street. There were a handful of small shops and office there. He ordered Bear to sit next to a lamp post and made the token gesture of looping the end of the leash around it. Then he walked into the office of a heating and cooling business. There was a grey-haired woman at a small desk, playing solitaire with a faded deck of cards.

She smiled up at him. "Help you?"

Reese smiled back. "Maybe. I hope so. I'm with Universal Heritage Insurance."

Her smiled turned from warm to coolly polite. "We don't need any more …"

"No, no, I'm not selling anything," he explained quickly. "We wrote the liability policy for City Builders. They're working across the street?"

"Oh, yes. I've seen the trucks." Her wariness vanished.

"Í was supposed to do a walk-through. You know, a surprise inspection, unannounced? But there doesn't seem to be anybody working over there today."

The woman shook her head. "Oh, no. They haven't been there all week. Or let me think … Frank! Were the construction guys over across the street last week?"

There was no answer from the back room.

"Part of the week," the woman said, nodding, satisfied. "I think Wednesday was the last day they worked."

Reese nodded. "Any idea why they stopped?"

She shrugged. "Permits, probably. They're a bitch to get in this town. Pardon my French. But it's true. We run into it all the time. Unless you're bossom buddies with the mayor or something, they're just impossible."

"I know," Reese said sympathetically. "We run into that a lot, too, with our policy holders. Every job runs long."

"Exactly. Anyhow, that's probably where they are."

"Well, I'll call the office and check. Thanks for your help."

She smiled at him again, the full bright smile. "Any time."

Reese went out and collected Bear. His phone rang. Reese glanced at it, taped his earwig. "New number, Finch?" he asked.

"They never stop, Mr. Reese."

"On my way." He put the phone away, walked Bear out to the nearest main street, and whistled for a cab.


	2. Chapter 2

**1974**

"How was school today?" his mother asked. She put his snack down in front of him, a bologna sandwich and a glass of milk. Her hand went up automatically to smooth down his cowlick.

"It was good. We got a new student. His name's Johnny, too."

"Really." She went back to the sink; she was snapping green beans. "Is he nice?"

"Yeah. So Mrs. McGill's going to call me John now. I got a new name tag."

His mother half-turned, her hands still in the sink. "That doesn't seem very fair, that you had to change your name."

John chewed and swallowed before he answered. "I got a green name tag. I like green better."

"Okay."

"And he needs to be Johnny more than I do."

She raised an eyebrow at him, but she didn't ask any questions. "As long as you don't mind."

"John sounds more grown up, anyhow."

His mother sighed. "You don't need to be in any hurry to grow up, Johnny. You should enjoy being a boy while you can."

He took another bite of his sandwich. His mom had put mustard on it, just a little, and spread it around, just the way he liked it. His mom made the best sandwiches in the world. He smiled and nodded. He liked being John at school, he decided, but he didn't mind being Johnny at home for a while longer.

* * *

**2013**

"Dylan Roth," Finch said, taping a picture to the board. "Twenty-four. Single. He works on an assembly line at Henderson Automotive. They supply components for dashboard controls for most of the major car companies. Dylan shares a small apartment in Brooklyn with his older brother Hart. He was studying accounting at a community college, but dropped out after his junior year. Still paying on his student loans; no other major debts. No criminal record. He has a state ID, but no drivers' license. Doesn't own a car. He has a Facebook page, but he very rarely posts to it, and nothing at all suggestive. Most of his friends seem to be from the same college or from his high school. At first glance, there's nothing alarming in their posts, either."

"No girlfriend? Boyfriend?"

"Not that I've identified."

Reese frowned. The young man in the picture was clean-cut, ordinary. Young. "No hint of why anyone would want him dead."

"Or why he would want someone else dead," Finch corrected gently. "The most noteworthy thing about Mr. Roth is that his parents died three years ago in a house fire, along with a younger brother named Vernon. Hart, the older brother, was also at home, but managed to escape without injury."

"Anything suspicious about the fire?"

"Not according to the public records, but I've asked Detective Carter to take a second look."

"Three years ago," Reese mused. He glanced over the other documents. The young man's credit report, his most recent pay stub, his college transcript. Newspaper clippings about the house fire. A copy of his lease. "He's the only name on the lease?"

"He was living there at the time of the fire. Apparently Hart moved in with him afterward. I haven't been able to find out much about the brother. He has no digital footprint at all."

"Hmmm." John looked over the documents again, but nothing else came to mind. "Guess I'll take a drive out to Brooklyn."

"I'll keep you informed."

* * *

The apartment building was unremarkable, brick and old. Reese made his way to the fourth floor and knocked lightly on the apartment door. As expected, no one answered. He picked the deadbolt and let himself inside.

The interior was cheaply furnished, but tidy enough. It had the faint smell of laundry done not quite often enough, trash not taken out quite promptly, but it was subtle. A warm afternoon with the windows open would wash it away. There were stains on the couch and the carpet, dirty dishes in the sink, but only from breakfast. Reese opened the refrigerator. It was a little sparse, but there were milk and eggs, juice and yogurt, along with some usual staples. Tomatoes, lettuce and apples in the crisper, ice cream and some frozen dinners in the freezer. There was a bunch of bananas on the counter. Reese didn't like bananas, but it was a sign of some attempt at healthy eating.

There were cans of soup and tuna and vegetables in the cupboard, three kinds of cereal and some instant oatmeal. Fruit snacks and pudding cups. The two young men weren't living high on the hog, but they were doing okay.

There was a full-sized fire extinguisher mounted on brackets next to the stove. Reese glanced up. There were two smoke detectors in the kitchen. He stuck a tiny video camera up in the shadow of the refrigerator, then moved through the wide archway into the living room. There were three more detectors there, and one in the short hallway to the bedroom.

Reese paused and studied the lay-out again. There was no furniture in front of any of the windows. Easy egress. Not surprising, he supposed, given the family's tragic history.

He stuck another camera facing the living room, then looked around the rest of the apartment. There was only one bedroom: Two twin beds, one made, one not, with barely space for a dresser at the end of each. No privacy for the bachelor brothers, evidently. The room had two smoke alarms and its own fire extinguisher. The window between the beds opened onto the fire escape, and naturally there was no furniture in front of it.

Reese moved quickly, setting cameras as needed. There was small bathroom, with another smoke alarm and another fire extinguisher. Nothing suggestive in the medicine cabinet. In the hallway, a set of big built-in drawers served as a linen closet; not surprisingly, the boys couldn't fold fitted sheets very well. Next to the drawers was a big door that Reese assumed was a coat closet.

"Up on all cameras, Mr. Reese," Finch said.

John went to pull the closet door open, and was surprised to find that it was locked.

He looked at it more closely. It was very old, and had a skeleton-key lock below the handle. He glanced to the table just beside it; the key was there, in plain sight. "Curiouser and curiouser," he muttered aloud.

"What was that, Mr. Reese?" Finch asked.

"Why would you lock a door and leave the key in plain sight, Finch?"

"To keep something inside, obviously."

John picked up the key and held it. Finch's answer really had been obvious. But it opened a whole new range of questions. What do two young men keep in a coat closet that needs to be locked up? A marijuana plant? No need for a lock there, and why leave the key out? A monkey, perhaps. A monkey would require a lock.

"Mr. Reese?" Finch prompted.

Reese's mind swung to the more likely possibilities. "Any chance Dylan and his brother have kidnapped someone?"

"I wouldn't think so." Finch sounded genuinely startled. "Why?"

"Tell you in a minute." Reese drew his weapon, used his other hand to unlock the door. He put the key down again, quietly, and turned the knob slowly.

He expected the worst. But what he saw stopped him dead.

It was quite a large closet, a walk-in with a garment bar on one side. There were a handful of coats on the bar, shoved to one side. Below the bar there was a small wooden desk and chair. A young man was sitting at the desk, with a pencil in his hand, scribbling on a stack of papers, numbers and sketches and words. He looked at up Reese with an expression of absolute terror.

"It's okay," John said. He kept the gun concealed behind the door and reached toward the young man with his open hand out. The man made a frightened noise and scrambled backward off the chair. "I'm not going to hurt you," Reese promised urgently. "Hey. Hey. Calm down. I'm here to help you."

"Mr. Reese?" Finch asked in his ear, quietly.

The young man huddled against the wall, his knees tucked against his chest, and put his head down. John could see him tremble. He was trembling a little himself, in rage.

There were two small, colorful foil packets at the edge of the desk. Fruit snacks. Empty. Something about them made Reese want to cry. Or scream.

He backed out of the closet and put his gun away.

"Is that Hart?" Finch said. He must have been able to see him on one of the cameras. "Is he hurt?"

"I don't think so." Reese crouched on his heels in the doorway. "Hart? Are you hurt?"

The boy tried to make himself smaller and squirmed further back into the corner.

"Finch?"

"Looking." There was a scramble of key strokes. "Hart Roth is …" There was an exasperated sign. "He's received SSI disability benefits, but for what? Their system is horribly antiquated."

Reese moved toward the young man without standing up. "Hart, listen to me. I'm not going to hurt you. I promise."

The boy only huddled into a tighter ball.

"Okay," John said. "Okay. Obviously this isn't working for you. I'm going to back off. I'm going to go over there, to the kitchen. But I won't leave you. I promise. You're safe now, Hart. No one's going to hurt you. And no one's going to lock this door on you."

He backed away from the closet door, then straightened slowly and retreated to the kitchen area. "Finch?" he said again, quietly.

"Give me a moment, Mr. Reese. Hacking into medical records is generally not as easy as hacking into financial records."

Reese leaned against the counter and took several slow, deep breaths. It didn't help much; he was still furious. But the boy in the closet was either high or had some kind of mental disability, and either way he was reacting very strongly to John's anger. He tamped down on it as hard as he could. The same controlled anger that made him lethal in a fight was working against him here.

He inhaled, exhaled. Listened to Finch's keystrokes, the occasional impatient mutter or sigh. Tried to force his mind to be calm, his heart to slow. By tiny increments he felt his shoulders relax, his legs uncoil.

He went to the kitchen window and looked out briefly. There was only a view of the next building, a similar window with the blind pulled. He moved back to the archway.

The door of the closet had been pushed mostly closed.

"Finch. Give me something."

"It's incomplete," Harold complained. "I have a dozen different sources and they're all giving me different information …"

Reese sighed heavily.

"… but the bottom line seems to be that Hart Roth is probably autistic. Or …" there was another unhappy pause, "… he has some other mental disability that closely mirrors many of the symptoms of autism."

"What does that mean, Finch?"

"It means …" Finch stopped again. His key clicks continued. "It likely means that he is unable to be of any help to you. He's probably scared to death of you."

"He is," Reese sighed. He turned, lifted his arm to pound his fist against the countertop. But he stopped just short of impact. The sound would just scare the boy even more. "Dylan's at work? How soon will he be home?"

"If he's keeping his usual schedule, in the next fifteen minutes or so."

"Good." Reese glared at the closet door. "I'd like to have a word with him."

Finch was silent for a moment. "You think he intends to kill his brother?"

"I think he's not going to get the chance to hurt his brother ever again."

"Mr. Reese …" Finch didn't finish the sentence. Reese knew his partner heard the danger in his voice, but he wasn't going to argue with it.

John paced across the apartment while he waited. He moved back into the bedroom and glared at the twin beds. The one what was made had a cartoon character pillowcase, a roundish boy with a golden sword and a yellow jelly-bean shaped dog. He didn't recognize them; it had been a long time since he'd watched any cartoons. Reese smoothed it gently.

Finch sighed, clicking. "I don't understand."

"What, Finch?"

"Hart Roth is enrolled in an adult day care center. He attends every weekday. I can't imagine why he would be at home now …"

There was a sound outside the apartment door, and then a key in the lock. Reese pulled back into the bedroom, coiled and ready to move. He did not plan to be overly gentle with Dylan. But when the door opened, a woman came in. She was about fifty, dressed in wore jeans and a dark sweater, no make-up and rather rumpled hair.

Reese retreated behind the bedroom door and watched through the crack.

The woman moved immediately to the closet door. She picked up the key, then paused when she saw the door was already cracked open. "What the hell?" she muttered. She opened the door the rest of the way. "Hart? You okay, baby?"

Evidently the young man had returned to his desk, because the woman turned away, unconcerned. "Woulda' sworn I locked that. Huh." She left the door open, put the key in the drawer of the little table, and moved to the couch. Then she picked up the remote and turned on the TV. She changed the station to some talk show and turned up the volume.

Reese watched. "Finch?" he said, very quietly, though he knew she couldn't hear him over the racket.

"Working on it," Finch answered swiftly.

Barely a minute passed until the door opened again. Their number, Dylan Roth, came in. "Hey, Mrs. Graham," he said casually. He went to the open closet door. "Hey, Hart, I'm home."

The woman rolled off the couch and turned off the TV. "Dylan. How was work?"

"Same as always." He slipped off his jacket, dropped it on the couch. "How was Hart?"

"Same as always," she returned. She gestured. "He gets his fruit snacks and sits at his little desk. No trouble at all."

"Good, good. Thank you."

"See you tomorrow." The woman walked out.

As soon as the door shut, Hart scrambled out of the closet and grabbed his brother's arm.

"Hey, Hart," Dylan said calmly. "How was your day?"

Hart hurried back to the closet and grabbed a jacket. Then he rushed back to his brother, got his jacket off the couch, and shoved it at him.

"What, Hart? You want to go for a walk?"

Hart glanced toward the bedroom door, wide-eyed and terrified, and pushed at his brother again.

"Oh, come on, I just got home. Can't I sit for a few minutes?"

The older brother was silent but insistent, crowding Dylan toward the door.

"Okay," Dylan said. "Okay. Let me just take a piss first, okay?" He skirted away from Hart and went into the bathroom.

Hart whimpered and crowded against the front door. He kept his eyes fixed on the bedroom, where he obviously knew Reese was. But he didn't say anything, didn't even point. All he wanted was to get his brother out of the apartment.

Out to safety.

Reese flattened himself against the wall and waited in silence until they left.

Then he let himself slump. The readiness to fight drained out of him, left him feeling vaguely sick. "Finch?"

"I'm here, Mr. Reese. Carol Graham lives in the building, on the first floor."

"And?"

"Checking. Are you alright?"

Reese shook his head, trying to clear it. "I will be." He moved out of the apartment and tailed the young men at a safe distance. Hart looked over his shoulder several time; John was careful to stay out of sight. He followed them down several blocks to one of the city's many pocket parks. The brothers sat on a bench and watched some younger boys shoot baskets.

Dylan looked worn out, but he was patient with his brother. Kind. It took a while, but Hart finally seemed to settle down. He trusted his younger brother absolutely.

He reminded Reese, ever so faintly, of Finch. Finally out of the library, with Bear on one side and Reese on the other, walking down brightly-lit nighttime sidewalks, highly anxious but relying on his companions to keep him safe and grounded.

They didn't have beer that night, in the end. They'd ended up in a ridiculously discrete club, deep gray carpets and dark heavy wood, drinking brandy so fine and rare that the bottle didn't have a label. None of the white-gloved waiters even considered objecting to the dog, but one, unbidden, had brought him a silver salad bowl full of water. When they left, there was no sign of a check, no presentation of the onyx credit card. There was only a nod between Harold and the man who opened the door for them.

John could still remember how warm that brandy had been, all the way home.

Reese scanned the area around the park. He didn't see anything that excited his interest. No visible threat. He settled his shoulder against the wall and made himself relax. It was likely to be a long night.


	3. Chapter 3

**1974**

"Stop stop stop."

John was playing catch with two of the other boys, just underhand throws because they weren't allowed to bring their gloves to school. At first he wasn't sure he'd heard it. He caught the ball and held it, tipped his head to listen better.

"Stop stop stop."

It was still quiet, almost lost below the squeals and shouts and squeaks of the playground. But he heard it.

"What's up, John?" Phil asked.

"I d'know." He flipped the ball back to his friend. "Be right back."

He trotted around to the front of the school. Tony was pushing Johnny's wheelchair on the sidewalk, and he was half-running, going as fast as he could. Two of his friends were running along beside him, laughing and encouraging him, and Tony was laughing. But Johnny, strapped in his chair, looked terrified. He was waving his hands as well as he could, and he kept saying, "Stop stop stop," over and over.

John looked around for the attendant. It was the younger girl this time. He'd seen her before; she was probably just out of high school and she seemed bored all the time. She was sitting on a bench, and though she could see the boys, she wasn't doing anything to stop them.

He stepped out in front of the wheelchair, and Tony made screeching noises with his mouth as he stopped. "Get outta the way."

"You have to stop," John said. "He doesn't like it, going that fast."

"Yes he does," one of the friends argued. "He loves it. Don't you, Johnny?"

Johnny shook his head, breathless and still scared. "Stop."

"Ah, you like it," Tony assured him. "It's fun."

"Stop," John said firmly. "He doesn't like it."

The other boy put his fist in his hip. "Nobody asked you to butt in, John. You should just butt out. We're playing with the crip, get it?"

"He's not a crip. Don't call him that! And he doesn't want to play with you."

Tony grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and tried to push it past John. John grabbed the handrails and held it still. Tony twisted. "I'll flip him if you don't let go."

John held on. Johnny looked up at him, terrified. "Don't, don't …"

The attendant looked up. "Cut it out," she said listlessly.

"Stop it!" John barked.

Mrs. Stupak, the lunch lady, finally noticed and strode toward them. "You boys stop that right now!" she barked.

The two other boys retreated immediately. Tony quit trying to tip the chair, but he didn't let go of the handles. "I wasn't doin' nothin'," he protested. "John started it."

John didn't let go of the chair either. "I did not."

By then the lunch lady was on them. "Both of you, let go, right now."

The boys released the wheelchair. Mrs. Stupak leaned over Johnny. "There, now, you alright, honey?"

Johnny flinched.

"And you," Mrs. Stupak barked at the attendant. "You get up off your lazy ass and look after this boy."

The girl stood up and walked over with as much attitude as she could muster. "I was watchin' him," she said sullenly.

"Well, watch him _better_ next time."

She stomped off.

"C'mon," the older girl said, grabbing the wheelchair. "It's time to go in anyhow."

John and Tony glared at each other. "Crip lover," Tony taunted.

"Jerk," John returned.

They moved a little closer. John instinctively put his arms back and his chest out. The other boy did the same.

"Fight, fight!" one of Tony's friends said, but softly.

Then the bell rang and they all went back inside.

* * *

**2013**

Advanced computer systems were relatively easy for Harold Finch to hack. Antiquated, outdated, and downright cludgey systems, on the other hand, were as big a headache for hackers as they were for their users. Government entities, especially at local and state levels, purchased their computer hardware and software from the lowest bidder. And it showed.

He slogged patiently through the swamp of bad codes and worse interfaces, tracing the story of Hart Roth.

When he was three years old, Hart had been diagnosed as hearing impaired. A year later, that diagnosis had been reversed, his condition determined to be a learning disability instead. And thereafter, for the remainder of his public education career, the young man's diagnosis had changed at least once a year and sometimes much more frequently. The most frequent diagnosis was autism. But he never seemed to quite fit the parameters of that diagnosis.

The bottom line, as far as Finch could tell, was that Hart Roth had tremendous difficulty with social interaction. He nodded sympathetically.

"Finch?" Reese interrupted over the com.

"Still searching. What are the boys doing?"

"They're headed back to the apartment. Any idea about the threat yet?"

"No. But I do have some information about the neighbor."

"I would love to hear it." Reese still sounded edgy, angry. The young man had clearly been mistreated, and Finch knew that was a particular sensitivity of the former operative. Though Hart was older than his brother, he was clearly very child-like. Reese did not like people who messed with children.

He also knew that his partner wasn't going to like the answer. "Hart is, as I said, enrolled in an adult daycare program called Day-by-Day. They are, at first glance, a reputable provider, though I will certainly look into them more closely as time permits. Hart is picked up by van every morning at eight, and dropped off in the evening at four-thirty."

"But the brother doesn't get home for another hour after that."

"Exactly." Finch adjusted his glasses, turned to his screen on the right. "Every Friday on his way home from work Dylan stops at an ATM between his bus stop and the apartment and withdraws one hundred and thirty dollars."

"That's oddly specific."

"Also every Friday," Finch continued, "Dylan uses his frequent diner card at a pizza parlor on the next block. Four slices and two soft drinks. Two of the slices are always double cheese; the others vary somewhat. They always dine in."

"Not much of a boys' night out," Reese commented. "What's he do with the rest of the money?"

Harold turned to the screen on the left. "There's no trail from that end. But I doubt that it's a coincidence that every Friday night Carol Graham spends between ninety-five and a hundred dollars at the package store across the street."

"Cigarettes and booze," Reese predicted.

"And lotto tickets," Finch added.

"So Dylan paying her to watch Hart from the time the van drops him off until he gets home from work."

"That's my belief, yes."

"And instead she locks him in the closet and goes back to her own apartment until she sees Dylan walking up to the front door."

As frequently happened, the steel in Reese' voice exactly matched the feeling in Finch's mind. "Yes."

"That stops today."

"Oh, yes," Finch agreed. He stood and walked to the side table, where the small laminating machine was warming up. "I think a well-timed visit from a social worker might solve that problem for the time being." He took the freshly-minted badge off the printer and trimmed it carefully.

"No guarantee she won't take it out on him," Reese warned.

"I'll be watching," Finch reminded him. "And when we've resolved the threat to Mr. Roth, we'll arrange a more long-term and reliable solution to the problem."

There was a long pause. Harold knew his partner was turning the words over in his mind. It wasn't that Reese doubted that Finch could and would execute a solution. It was, rather, that he was deciding if he could let this woman come in contact with Hart even one more time.

In the moment when the young man had scrambled away from John Reese's kindness, he had come very decidedly under the ex-op's protection.

And those whom Reese protected, Finch protected. There was no need for discussion on that point.

If John decided they needed to sweep the two young men up and stick them in a safe house right now, Finch would not argue. He had already had one picked out.

"They're home," Reese finally said. In his words, Finch heard his decision. No need for drastic action. Yet.

Finch sat back down and brought views from all six of the apartment cameras up on his center screen. All was quiet for the moment. He glanced at each of his side screens, then cleared the one with the neighbor's shopping history. He would deal with her later. He also ignored, for the moment, Hart Roth's medical and social history, though he left those searches running. Instead, he dug into Dylan Roth's finances.

Sometimes the threats were easy and obvious. Frequently they were simply stupid. But these young men were, at least for the moment, a puzzle.

Finch had always liked puzzles. He enjoyed the challenge of ferretting out secrets and motives. But when lives were on the line, much of the fun went out of the game. And when the lives in question were people like these brothers, young men who at first glance were simply trying to carry on in the aftermath of a great personal tragedy, it was no fun at all.

He shifted his shoulders, adjusted his glasses, and dug in to work.

* * *

Christine Fitzgerald stood very still and simply stared.

Will Ingram followed her gaze. He had to agree that bookcases were impressive. They covered most of the front wall of the loft, except for the huge half-moon window, from floor to ceiling. Architecturally interesting, the real estate broker called them. "Honestly," he said quietly, "most people are more impressed by the lap pool."

She didn't turn her head. "Most people are philistines."

Julie Carson came down the stairs from the kitchen quietly; Will reached his hand out for hers. "You sound like my Uncle Harold," he said to Christine.

"Thank you," she answered absently. Then she moved two steps towards the books. "They're … fake." She sounded heartbroken.

"The real ones are in storage," Will assured her quickly. "These are false fronts, set dressing the broker brought in for staging. But my dad really did have that many books."

Christine grinned, embarrassed. "Sorry. Book fetish." She turned. "Lap pool?"

He gestured behind them to the glass wall that enclosed the lap pool. "Lap pool."

"Ehhhh." She smiled at Julie. "I'm sorry, "I'm …"

Julie smiled back, walked forward with her hand out. "You like books. Nothing wrong with that. Julie Carson."

"Scotty Fitzgerald." They shook hands. "It's nice to finally meet you."

"You, too. I like your coffee shop." She gestured to Will. "He took me to see the Christmas lights. It's impressive."

Christine rolled her eyes. "Zubec. He's going to burn the place to the ground one of these days, I swear. I'm sorry I missed you."

"He said you were at a funeral," Will said. "Is everything okay?"

Her eyes dropped just for an instant. "He was a friend." She gestured toward the window. "You know there's a guy out there watching this place?"

They both nodded. "He's on the payroll," Julie said.

"Oh, good." She sighed. "Honestly, between the funeral and the holidays, I really haven't made much progress with the boxes."

"There's no hurry," he assured her.

"Let me show you what I've got."

They went up to the kitchen. Christine brought a three-inch thick binder out of her bag and set it on the table, but didn't open it. "First off, I rented another storage locker so I could move the boxes when I was done going through them."

Julie brought them all coffee. "You should let Will pay for that."

"I already did."

"Oh." She gestured to the coffee. "It's not as good as yours. I don't know why."

Christine took a sip. "Because you have a water filter. Takes all the grit out, loses its character. It's not bad, though."

"I'm not even going to ask," Will said, "how you got my credit card number to rent the storage locker."

"It wasn't hard, actually. But I'm glad you noticed. I wondered if you were checking your statements."

He grinned sheepishly. "I'm not, but Uncle Harold has a guy who does for me. He called. I told him it was okay."

"Good enough. First off, there were seven boxes of burned CDs. Bootleg music. What the heck is up with that?"

Will groaned. "I told them they could throw those out."

"They didn't."

"My dad was big into music. And he burned two copies of every CD he bought. One for the office and one for the car, and the originals at home."

"He was a billionaire. With a 'B'. Why didn't he just buy three originals?"

Will shrugged. "No idea. He started doing it when burnable CDs first came out, and he just never quit. Anyhow, I still have the originals, but the copies can get pitched."

"Can I keep them?"

"Sure."

"Cool." She patted the binder. "Moving on, then." She glanced swiftly at Julie; Will nodded and she continued. "You said Corwin told you R & D fell apart. And this is a piece of that. There were actually eight boxes on this particular issue alone. Seriously, I don't think your dad ever saw an e-mail that he didn't print and file. But this," she patted the binder again, "is that it all boils down to.

"There was an engineer at IFT named Janelle Kyrinkowski. Electrical engineer. Nathan had recruited her personally out of grad school. In 2000 and 2001 she designed a mini smart grid."

"A mini …?" Will interrupted.

"A smart grid is a computerized electrical grid. It's able to distribute available power based on a prioritization protocol, and to re-route unneeded power back to the main grid. It's mainly used with solar and wind power systems, to allow them to connect to traditional grids. Ideally, a solar array can feed power back to the traditional system during the day, then draw from it at night or when demand exceeds its own capacity."

"But what's a _mini_ smart grid?"

Christine wrinkled her nose. "As far as I can tell, without an electrical engineering degree, what Kyrinkowski designed was specifically for small-area usage. Like a small college campus or a research station, maybe an apartment building. Something like that. And it was specialized, tailored for small usage, rather than a redesign of a larger model."

"Was it workable?" Julie asked.

"It wasn't finished, but it was apparently very promising. And it was cutting-edge. In 2001, smart grids were just beginning to be designed for commercial use. The military was a little ahead, of course."

"So what happened?"

Christine gestured with her head. "The Towers came down. IFT shut down through the end of the year. Kyrinkowski got a job offer from a tech firm in Germany. And she went."

"And took her mini grid with her?" Will guessed.

"She tried to. IFT sued, proprietary research, patent infringement, intellectual property. The lawyers got the roll-out stopped, and then there was fourteen months of discovery, depositions, opinions, appeals. Eight boxes, like I said. At the end of which, they sent this to your father." She drummed her fingers over the binder again. "It's the case summary."

Will rolled his eyes. "That's the _summary_?"

"Don't worry," Christine assured him, "I've read for you. Here's the bottom line. The lawyers were sure they could win the suit, but it would probably take ten years. The German company offered IFT ten million dollars, plus legal fees and research expenses, to drop the suit and allow the mini grid to go live. And if I didn't have a big crush on Nathan anyhow, I would love him just for this: After fourteen months and thousands of pages of documents and a three-inch summary, this is the response he wrote." She flipped open the binder and pushed it across to Will, open to the cover page.

At the top of the page, Nathan Ingram had written, in his distinctive scrawl, three words. _Take the deal._ It was followed by his initials. There was nothing else.

Will looked at Christine. "That's it?"

"That's it. They settled the suit, the grid went live, it's still in use and making big money."

"So he got ripped off?" Julie asked carefully.

"Maybe."

"How is that a maybe?" Will pushed. "It seems pretty obvious. Why would he take that deal?"

Christine shook her head. "What he wrote there? That's all I can find. _Take the deal._ No further discussion, no explanation anywhere. I can tell you what he did. I can't tell you why."

Will traced his finger slowly over his father's writing.

"You have a guess, though," Julie prompted.

"I worked for IFT for one summer, when I was fourteen. I met Nathan Ingram a total of six times. My guesses would be exactly that. Guesses."

"Educated guesses," Will pressed. "Try."

She nodded. "Okay. One, cutting-edge technology doesn't age well; new tech loses value incredibly fast. In 2001, the smart grid was brand new. Nobody had one and everybody wanted one, especially a scalable one like Kyrinkowski made. A dozen different tech companies were trying to build one. If the project had been shelved for ten years while the lawsuit settled, it might have been worthless."

"So he took the sure money," Will ventured.

"That's my first and best guess."

"But you have others."

"Sure. Two, your father had recruited Janelle Kyrinkowski himself. From some other docs, I've gathered that he was personally interested in her career. In her success. There weren't many female engineers then; there still aren't. He was deliberately proactive about recruiting them." She gestured a little. "Look at the Red Shirts. Half of the interns were female, at a time when that was unheard of."

"Was he sleeping with her?" Will asked, his voice just a little harsh. "Kyrinkowski?"

Christine shrugged. "Maybe, but I doubt it. Honestly, I haven't found even a whisper that he ever slept with anybody who worked for him. Including the lovely Miss Watts."

"That's … something. I guess."

Julie reached over and took his hand.

"So," Christine continued, "he may have wanted to see her succeed, even if it wasn't with IFT. Or — and this is the longshot answer — Nathan may have realized that the mini grid was going to make the world better, and he wanted it to be out there, in use, even if it wasn't making IFT any money." She shrugged. "He had a history of that sort of behavior."

"Which do you think it is?" Julie asked.

"Maybe some of each. I don't know." She gestured to Will. "Like I said, I can tell you what, but not why. You'll have to figure that out for yourself."

He nodded. "So what Alicia Corwin told me was true."

Christine made a face. "This is eight boxes, out of hundreds. It doesn't contradict what Corwin told you, but it doesn't prove it, either. It's a piece of a much bigger puzzle. I'll keep looking."

"You don't mind?"

"It's interesting. I'm sorry I'm not getting through it faster."

Will shook his head. "There's no rush. Just do what you have time for. We're, um, leaving the country anyhow, for a while."

"Where you going?"

"Jordan."

Christine sat back. "It's funny. I know you said Jordan, but I heard Syria."

Will snorted. "I wish."

"The State Department won't let us go to Syria," Julie said. "Too big a security risk. But they're letting us make a six-week trial run to Jordan. There are some large refugee camps just over the border that need help."

"You're, hmmm, taking some security with you, yes?"

"Oh, yes."

"Good. When are you leaving?"

"Next week. Friday."

She nodded. "Okay. I'll e-mail you if I come up with anything exciting."

"I don't know how good our access will be, but I'll check in when I can."

"Maybe I can upgrade your phones before you go."

"We've got mil-spec," Julie answered. "I don't think there is an upgrade."

"There's mil-spec prototype. Next gen." Christine pushed back from the table and stood up. "Let me see what I can get my hands on."

"I don't get it," Julie said, standing to join her. "How does somebody who owns a coffee shop get her hands on tech like that?"

"I do beta testing for developers."

Julie glanced over at Will, gave him a little smile. "We're going to dinner. Come with us. "

Her eyes dropped again. "I can't. Sorry. Another time."

"Hot date?" Will teased gently.

"Yeah. With tech specs. Long story."

Will showed her out. When he came back, Julie was standing where Christine had stood, looking at the bookshelves. "Well?"

"I like her," Julie pronounced. "She doesn't make up answers."

"I almost wish she would. It'd be easier."

She slid into his arms. "You're never going to have all the answers, you know. My father's still _alive_ and I don't know anything about him."

Will nodded solemnly. "Do you think I should give this up?"

"No. I think you should find out whatever you can. And Scotty certainly seems willing to keep digging." She frowned a little. "But that's a little weird, don't you think? That she's doing it for free?"

"I don't know …"

"She's a professional tech consultant. And she's consulting, basically. Probably for hundreds of billable hours. Why isn't she billing you?"

Will shifted, uncomfortable. "I don't know," he repeated. "Maybe because she had a crush on my dad?"

"Maybe. Or maybe she's trying to poach whatever tech has any value left."

"It's been almost three years. All the stuff will be too old, won't it? And the lawyers went through it all before they sent it to me."

"I suppose so." Julie shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe I'm just too suspicious."

"And you think I'm not suspicious enough, so we make a good pair."

"We definitely do. But I won't be too surprised if a huge invoice appears one day."

"I will be." He shrugged. "We can afford it." Julie turned back toward the bookshelves. Will let his arms slide around her, rested his chin on the top of her head. "Did she seem a little off to you? Scotty?"

"Because of the books?"

"No. Well, yes, but … I don't know. She was different this time. More … I don't know. Cool, somehow. Reserved?"

"She seemed fine to me. But I didn't meet her before," Julie pointed out, "so I don't have anything to compare it to."

"It's probably nothing."

"Are you sure it's your dad she has the crush on and not you?"

Will snorted. "You think everybody has a crush on me."

"Yeah, it's in the girlfriend job description." She wrapped her arms tighter over his. "But if it is your dad, maybe being in his loft threw her a little."

"Maybe."

"Or her friend that died."

"Mm-hmmm."

"Or she just hates me."

"She doesn't hate you," Will promised. "I'm probably imagining things."

"Maybe she had a fight with Harold."

"Well, there's that." Will tipped his head. "So now that you've met her, you think that might be a thing? Her and Uncle Harold?"

Julie considered, shook her head. "I'd have to see them together. But it's not as far-fetched as I thought it was the first time you said it." She nodded toward the book shelves. "They definitely have _that_ in common, anyhow."

"Uh-huh. She would never have even noticed the pool if I hadn't mentioned it." Will nodded. "I guess I should get the real books back. If we're going to stay here."

"You don't care about the books." She turned to face him again. "And you don't want to live here."

"I don't care where I live, as long as you're there."

"But you don't _want_ to live here. You'd much rather be in a tent in the middle of a refugee camp."

"As long as you're there," he repeated.

She laughed, kissed him. "Leave the books in storage. We'll figure it out when we get back."

"Okay."

"But while we're here," she continued, "I'm going to keep skinny dipping in that pool."

"Before dinner?"

"Can't do it after dinner. I might drown."

Will grinned, trailed after her as she shed her clothes on her way to the pool. "It's not really so bad," he mused. "I could get used to living here."


	4. Chapter 4

Reese found a spot on a roof across the street from the apartment and watched through his camera while the young men moved through their evening routine. Hart had insisted, with gestures and arm pulling, that his brother search the apartment. Finally satisfied, he returned to his closet and scribbled happily on his stack of papers. Dylan didn't make any attempt to close the door on him. Reese got the impression that they both considered the closet to be Hart's little office, his retreat. Not his cell or his prison. It was clear to him that Dylan didn't know about his neighbor's treatment of his brother. But it was also clear that Hart didn't really mind being locked in there. He was perfectly happy with his desk and his sketches or math problems or whatever he was doing.

Dylan put some music on, classic Foreigner, and made supper. Mac and cheese from a box, smoked sausage, canned pineapple. Glasses of milk. He told Hart to wash up and the older boy did so without protest. They sat together at the little dinette table and ate. "So how was the shop today?" Dylan asked.

Hart shrugged, didn't answer.

"Not talking tonight, huh?"

Hart shook his head.

"Something bad happen? Are you upset about something?"

Hart shook his head again.

"Just don't want to talk?"

A nod.

Dylan sighed. "Okay. Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me."

After a long pause, Hart said, very quietly, "You talk."

They were the first words Reese had heard the young man say.

"You always want me to talk," Dylan chided, but very gently. "Okay. So I went in to work and put together little tiny electronic pieces. And then we had a coffee break, and I got a cup of vending machine coffee, which was really awful. Some days it's just regular awful, but today it was really awful. And then I put together some more little tiny electronic pieces, and then I had lunch …"

"Ellie?" Hart asked, still quietly.

Dylan grinned briefly. "Yes, I saw Ellie, but she didn't sit with me."

"Ask?"

"No, I didn't ask her."

"Should ask."

Dylan sighed. "Yeah, I should. Maybe I'll make some brownies or something Sunday and take extras Monday and ask her to share. Girls like chocolate, right?"

Hart ducked his head, grinning. "Guess so."

"Anyhow, after lunch I went back to the line and guess what? More little tiny electronic pieces …"

He went on talking, about his day, his co-workers, people he'd seen on the bus on the way home, things he'd read in the paper in the break room. Nothing he said suggested why anyone would want to kill him. He was just filling the room with words, giving his brother a share of his world. Talking to talk, because Hart had asked him to.

Reese tapped his earpiece. "Finch?"

"I'm here, Mr. Reese," Finch answered. "Dylan apparently takes his responsibility for his brother very seriously."

"It doesn't look like much of a life, Finch."

"Friday night pizza and an occasional weekend visit to the Red Box appear to be the highlights."

"Dylan can't leave Hart alone. So he can't go out, can't see his friends. Can't date anyone."

"Even if he could afford to, which he really can't."

"Is it possible," Reese asked carefully, "that he's tired of the responsibility?"

"It's possible," Finch allowed. From his tone, he didn't think it any more likely than Reese did. "He dropped out of college in order to care for him. The disability funds that Hart receives barely cover the cost of his adult daycare."

"And there's no end in sight." Reese sighed. He didn't want to believe that the caring young man he was listening to was plotting to murder his brother. If anything, he seemed more likely to be contemplating a murder-suicide. But Dylan didn't sound hopeless.

Not yet, anyhow. "What about his job?" he asked.

"He works on the assembly line," Finch reported. "Nothing sensitive or secretive. His attendance record is a bit spotty; specifically, he has a problem with tardiness. It's gotten much worse in the past few months. One more incident and he's likely to be terminated."

"He has to wait for Hart to get picked up before he leaves," Reese guessed.

"Yes. He doesn't have any other disciplinary problems. His reviews are fine. No indication that he has any problems with any of his co-workers."

"And Ellie?"

There was a pause, some keystrokes. "Eleanor Barkley. Twenty-three. Works in the accounting department; she's been there for the past two years."

"Boyfriend?"

"Not according to her Facebook account. And she is quite diligent about keeping it updated."

Reese shook his head. "We're missing something. I think I need to go to work with Dylan tomorrow."

"I'm inclined to agree, Mr. Reese."

"You'll keep an eye on Hart for me?"

"Of course."

Reese glanced down at his suit. "I'm going to need a change of clothes."

"Do you want me to bring you something?" Finch offered.

"No. I've got a few things to do." He looked through the camera again. The young men were washing dishes together. Dylan said something to his brother about getting in the shower. They clearly weren't going out again. "I think they're settled in for the night. I'll have Lionel come and watch them."

"I'm sure he'll be delighted," Finch said drily.

"I'm sure he will."

* * *

**1974**

Johnny didn't go out for recess the next day. After lunch his attendant pushed him back up to the classroom and put him behind his desk again.

When John came in, he asked him why. "Didn't want to," Johnny answered simply.

The next day it rained and all the kids had indoor recess, which pretty much meant board games and talking in the cafeteria. John sucked up all his courage and approached Mrs. Stupak. "Can I go back up to the classroom with Johnny?"

She scowled at him. "Why?"

"So he won't be lonely."

She looked at him like he'd lost his mind. Then she just shrugged. "Sure. Go ahead."

John happily trotted after the wheelchair.

Back in the empty classroom, he pulled his chair around to the front of Johnny's desk. "So what do you like to play?"

The boy smiled. "Cards. Checkers."

"Checkers." John went and got the board and set it up. "Red or black?"

"Red."

He swiveled the board around.

Johnny reached for a piece. His hand jerked violently, and he nearly knocked the board over. "Sorry."

"It's okay," John said. "You want me to move for you?"

"Sure."

"This one?"

"Yes."

"One square or two?"

"Two.

It took them the entire recess period to play one game. But John didn't mind. It was more fun than hanging out in the noisy lunchroom. Mrs. McGill came back in about halfway through the game. She looked surprised, and John thought she might yell at him. Then she just went to her desk and did teacher things.

"If you want to come outside tomorrow," John said, "I'll make sure Tony doesn't bother you."

Johnny shook his head. "It's okay."

"No, really. He's just a big jerk. I'll take care of him."

"They'll call you names."

"I don't care."

Johnny smiled at him. "Why?"

"I dunno." John shrugged. "Just 'cause."

Johnny pointed to a piece. "This. Jump. King me."

"I was hoping you wouldn't see that." But he moved the piece and crowned it, and three moves later Johnny won the game. John hadn't let the boy in the wheelchair win. He'd beaten him fair and square. "I'll win tomorrow, I bet," John said.

"We'll see," Johnny answered.

Then the bell rang and they put the board away.

* * *

**2013**

As it turned out, Detective Fusco was actually working a case when Reese called. By the time he showed up, the Roth brothers were getting ready to turn in.

"What the heck is he doing?" Fusco asked, staring through his binoculars.

Reese raised his camera. Hart Roth had brought out a stepladder and was moving it around the apartment, climbing up to touch the 'test' button on every single smoke detector. "Most of his family was killed in a house fire," he explained briefly.

"Jesus. That why they're in trouble?"

"We have no idea why they're in trouble," Finch told him over the com.

"We have audio and visual in the apartment," Reese said. "You can sit in your car in you want. Finch can wake you if there's trouble."

Fusco smirked. "Nice of you. Maybe in a while. So I'm going to be here all night, I take it."

"I'll be back in a couple hours."

"'Cause, you know, it's not like I have a day job or anything."

"Lionel," John answered pointedly, "you should be glad your day job isn't pushing up dandelions at Oyster Bay."

There was a time when the detective would have been offended. Now he just smirked again. "Yeah, yeah. Get outta here. I got these guys."

Reese watched a minute more, while Hart put the ladder away and went to brush his teeth. Every single night, he realized. The young man must climb up on that ladder every single night, and perhaps he would for the rest of his life. He shook his head. Hart wouldn't survive without his brother. If Dylan was a victim, he had to be saved. If he was the perpetrator, he had to be stopped before he could commit the crime. Either way, the Machine might has well have given them two Numbers, because there were certainly two lives at stake.

"Back in a while," he promised Fusco, and made his way out of the building.

* * *

The third time Smokey walked over his keyboard, Finch stood up. "You are impossible," he told her.

The cat looked at him, through eyes exactly the color of John Reese's, and with the same utterly unimpressed look the ex-operative sometimes wore. Then she sprawled languidly in the three inches of space between the keyboard and the edge of the desk.

Finch looked at the dog. "Can't you do anything with her?"

Bear thumped his tail on the ground gently. He didn't even bother to get up.

The billionaire genius looked around, at his rare books and his expensive equipment. He had done a bit of browsing in their sparse down time and found a tip for feline management that had seemed so unlikely to work that he'd disregarded it. But much like Bear had provoked minor surgery on his beloved squeaky toy, Smokey had now pushed her foster-owner to desperate measures.

Finch went into the little side room and found what he was looking for: A cardboard which contained a brand new pair of dress shoes, black leather, in Reese's size, a back-up pair. He took the shoes out and left them on the shelf, but took the shoe box with him. Though, he reflected, the application of a shoe might be just as effective as the box was likely to be, and possibly a great deal more so …

He carried the empty box back to his computer desk and set it down just to the left of the keyboard.

Smokey opened one eye and looked at him. She raised and lowered her tail, just once. If she's possessed the dexterity, Finch was sure she would have made an obscene gesture. Then she closed her eye again.

"Impossible beast," he grumbled. He stalked off to the little pantry and made a cup of tea.

When he got back, Smokey was curled up in the cardboard box. Her tail hung over the end, but the rest of her body was comfortably folded inside. She was, quite contentedly, asleep.

"Really?" Finch said with great annoyance. "Literally hundreds of shelves and nooks and windowsills to sleep on, and you wanted a shoe box? Really?"

This time the cat didn't bother to open an eye, though she did indulge him with another tail wave.

Bear thumped his tail, too.

"You were no help at all," Harold told him. He shook his head. "A shoe box. Really."

Almost against his will, he considered the purchase of a cushioned cat bed, perhaps something in velvet or micro-suede. He knew at once that Smokey would ignore any such thing. Like her owner, she was a stubbornly opinionated creature.

He sat down and pulled his keyboard toward him. Smokey twitched her tail one more time, but she didn't wake enough to interfere.

* * *

Reese took a quick shower, because he didn't know when he'd get another chance. Then he put on dark slacks and a black t-shirt under a leather jacket. He packed a duffle with two changes of clothes, jeans and polos and a second jacket. They he moved to the kitchen and loaded up some water bottles and portable snacks. Finally he got weapons – a handgun and backup piece, extra clips, an ankle knife, and then a rifle, just in case.

There was no word from Finch, but he could hear the soft white buzz in his ear that said the genius was still with him. As always. The silence meant that nothing had happened to the young men in his absence. He hadn't really expected any trouble. The boys were in for the night; Fusco's presence was just a precaution.

The silence also meant, of course, that Finch hadn't identified the threat to the boys.

Reese added a couple more water bottles.

He took a short detour on his way back out, to drive past Chaos. The café was only half-full, for a change. He stopped his car and looked through the front window, but he didn't see Christine. The windows of her third floor apartment were dark. He drove on, trying to identify exactly what was troubling him. He certainly seemed to be the only one who was worried about the hacker.

There was a single small light visible in the upstairs apartment at the new building. Reese parked his car and looked up at it, considering. Maybe, he thought, some worker or city inspector had left it on accidentally. But more likely Christine was up there in the unfinished space, alone.

He walked around to the back door. The lock was a keypad as hefty as the door itself, and he already knew none of Finch's electronic hacks would work. He could knock, of course, but he wasn't sure she'd hear from the top floor. He could call her, ask her to come down and let him in. At least that wouldn't startle her. But that assumed that she'd answer his call.

He wondered again why he was so sure Christine Fitzgerald wasn't speaking to him.

On a whim, he brushed his thumb along the bottom of the lock. It clunked open immediately.

She might not be speaking to him, but she'd programmed his print into her new locks.

He went quietly down the dark hall, then up the stairs. The new stairs in the center of the first floor had been framed, but the risers weren't in yet. The second floor had been gutted to the support beams. He climbed the old stairs to the third story and stepped out onto the floor. They'd been working on the framing and plumbing here; he could see the outlines of the apartment taking shape.

Christine was sitting on the floor at the far side of the space, with her back against the wall, her legs crossed, her computer open on her lap. The screen's light illuminated her face; the rest of her was in shadow. She watched him calmly; she'd probably been listening since the door lock triggered. "Hey, John."

So maybe she was speaking to him after all. On reflection, she really wasn't the silent-treatment type. "Hey yourself. You here all alone?"

"I was." Her tone was very off-hand, too casual, and he wasn't sure how to read it. "What'cha need?"

Reese paced to the front of the space slowly, looking at the new windows. They were absolutely top of the line ballistic glass, bullet proof, soundproof, largely unbreakable. They'd been installed well, with steel-reinforced frames, caulked and painted already. Tight. "Nothing. Just haven't seen you for a while."

She shrugged. "I've been busy."

"I figured once you knew about the library I'd have to be chasing you out of there with a stick."

"Hmmm."

Reese turned. Christine was bent over her laptop again. She was wearing a navy blue sweatshirt that was much too big; the body came all the way down over her hips, and the sleeves were rolled up several times to clear her hands. There was some kind of writing on the front, something simple, big white letters.

Three letters. She was hunched and they weren't clearly visible, but Reese knew immediately what they were.

John sighed softly. He'd expected fallout from his arrest and Donnelly's death for Carter, for Finch and Fusco, for himself. Even Bear had been uncharacteristically anxious. But somehow Christine had slipped beneath his radar. She'd been missing for weeks before he'd even registered that she was gone.

Although, to be fair, she hadn't gone anywhere. She was still at Chaos, still working around the city. Finch had spoken with her. The only conspicuous sign of her absence was that she wasn't haunting the library.

But that should have sent up a red flag. It should have been as obvious to him as if Finch had abandoned his computers.

John had been busy, too. And distracted. And wired with explosives part of the time. That was no excuse. "I suppose," he ventured, making his voice stay casual, "you're planning to walk home alone in the dark."

She glanced up again. "You're kidding, right?"

"Just because you used to live on the streets doesn't mean you can't get mugged."

"I have mace."

"That'll work if there's only one of them." He moved closer, glanced over her shoulder. "Electrical?"

"Sound system. If I'm starting with bare studs, I might as well wire in some bangin' speakers."

"Bangin'," he repeated.

"Yep." She smiled briefly, but kept working.

"You shut construction down."

"Reconsidering some architectural choices."

"But you're still going to move, right?"

"When I'm ready."

It was subtle, but he could see the tension in her neck and shoulders. She wasn't ignoring him; she was very aware of his presence. And she didn't like it. Reese circled around in front of her and crouched on his heels. "I didn't kill Donnelly," he said quietly.

That got her to look at him, at least. "I never thought you did," she answered, surprised.

"Then why are you avoiding me?"

"I'm not. I'm just busy." She gestured around. "I'm building a house. I'm going through a dead billionaire's shit ton of documents. And I still have the two businesses and the whole life that I had when I was still on my own to maintain. It takes time."

_And flying down to Donnelly's funeral had taken some time, too_, Reese thought. Unconvinced, he stood up and resumed his casual inspection of the framing. The fireplace in the living room was going to be very nice.

Christine sighed, closed her laptop, and stood up. "John."

He turned. He could clearly read the 'FBI' stamped on the front of the sweatshirt now. The letters were faded, well-worn and often-washed. It looked cozy and comfortable. And maybe it was just a case of grabbing an old sweatshirt to wear to an unheated, sawdust-laden construction side. But it had obviously been _his_ sweatshirt, and she wore it easily, like a security blanket.

"I know about your being arrested, about Rikers," she said. "I'm sorry you went through all that." He started to answer and she gestured. "I don't think you're the type to dance on Donnelly's grave, but I don't imagine you'll spend much time mourning his loss either. I don't blame you. But he was my friend," she continued quickly. "I don't have many friends. I can't …" She stopped. "I'm not avoiding you. I'm avoiding everyone. I just need a little … space."

Reese nodded solemnly. He didn't like it. But at least he knew what was going on. "So we're good?"

"We're good," she assured him. "I'm here if you need me. Just … try not to for a while, okay?"

"Okay." He picked up her coat. "Come on, I'll drive you home."

"You don't need to."

"Then I'll wait outside until you leave and I'll follow you to make sure you get there safely."

"John …"

"And by the way, it's getting really cold again."

Christine sighed. Then she put her computer in her bag and let him help her into her coat.

They left the building. "You really don't have to do this," she protested again.

John opened the car door for her. "Here's the thing. I don't have many friends, either. And I can't afford to lose one to some stupid street crime that I could have prevented."

She didn't answer, but she didn't argue either.

He drove back to the café and parked out front. "How can I help?" John asked.

Christine sighed. "All your time with Random and he hasn't taught you the secret to caring for a wounded introvert?"

"I might have been late for class that day."

"You leave them alone."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Reese considered. Maybe insisting that Finch go out for that beer wasn't a good idea, but John didn't regret it. It had helped him. Helped them both. "I don't know. I'm more of a hand-on kind of guy."

"Really? I hadn't noticed." She slipped out of the car. "Good night, John."

"Night." He watched her to the door, then waited until the lights in the upstairs windows came on before he started the car.

He believed what she'd said. She wasn't angry with him, and she didn't blame him for Donnelly's death. But she was hurting, and he felt like an idiot for not even considering that that might be the case.

_He was my friend_, he remembered bitterly. _I don't have many friends._ Christine was a lot like Finch in some ways, but those words had been John's own, not very long ago. He could still taste the desperation in them. And for Christine there would be no rescue, no happy ending to take the sting away. Stanton had seen to that.

Reese sighed. A wounded introvert. _Another_ wounded introvert. He'd spent his life with outgoing people. Even the most secretive of them had been, at their core, extroverts. Now he had two unrepentant introverts, and he honestly didn't have a clue how to deal with them.

He was a dog person. He always had been. His friends were dog people, too. But Finch and Fitzgerald were both cats.

Still, his approach with Finch had worked out. If Christine wanted more space, more time, he'd give her that. To a point. But then he was taking her out for a beer. Or expensive brandy. Or Zombies or chocolate martinis or whatever other alcoholic monstrosity she wanted. He'd try to give her a little room, mostly because she'd been straightforward in asking for it. A _little_ room. But not much.

And in the meantime, he decided, he might recruit a little assistance. He knew just where to find it.


	5. Chapter 5

**1974**

John had missed his bus.

He'd trudged home along the side of the road, on the shoulder and facing traffic like his mother had taught him. It was just over three miles. It was a nice day. He didn't have much homework, just some English, so his book bag wasn't heavy. But when he finally crossed his own front yard, he was a little worried that he'd get in trouble for being late.

He was right about that. His mother came out the front door before he even reached the porch steps. "Where have you been, Johnny?" she asked. "The bus should have been here a long time ago."

"I missed the bus."

"Why didn't you go to the office and call me, then?"

"It's a nice day. I didn't want to bother you." He shrugged. "Am I in trouble?"

"I …" She looked at him, like she was making up her mind. "I bet you'd like a drink."

"Yes, please." He was very thirsty. He wanted to take his sneakers off, too.

"Come on, then." She held the door open for him. "How did you miss the bus?"

"I was waiting with Johnny. His ride was late."

His mother got a glass down from the cupboard and paused. "You should have gotten on the bus, Johnny. You're not old enough to walk home by yourself. "

"I couldn't leave him alone."

"Weren't there teachers there, and other children?"

John thought about it while she filled the glass from the tap. He wasn't supposed to be a tattle-tale. But he didn't want to lie, either. "The teachers were busy." That much was true.

She shook her head, watching him chug the water down. "Then his mother should have been sure you got home safely. "

John sat down and untied his shoes without answering.

"I don't understand why you had to stay. He's old enough to wait for his ride by himself."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Don't do it again, Johnny. I don't want you walking home alone. There's no sidewalks. It's dangerous."

John frowned down at his filthy socks. "Yes, ma'am." He didn't like to lie to her, but he already knew if it happened again he'd do the same thing.

Somehow, she knew what he didn't say. "And if you do miss the bus again, you go to the office and have them call me. Alright?"

That was a little better, John decided. He nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Can I have some more water?"

She took the glass and refilled it. "Do you have any homework?"

"A little. I'll do it now." He put his shoes on the mat by the door and brought out his English book.

His mother ruffled his hair fondly, tried in vain to push his cowlick down. "You are such an independent little boy sometimes. I don't know what I'm going to do with you."

John looked up and her and grinned crookedly. Then he picked up his pencil and got to work.

* * *

**2013**

The brothers waited on the sidewalk outside their apartment building. John Reese stood across the street, carefully concealed, and watched. He watched the brothers, and he watched everyone around them.

Hart seemed agitated. John couldn't tell if that was because of their encounter in the apartment the day before, or if it was normal for him in the morning. Dylan was calm at first, but as the minutes passed, he became increasingly agitated as well.

"Dylan's going to be late for work," Finch fussed in John's ear.

"Hart hasn't been picked up yet," Reese returned.

Dylan checked the time on his cell phone. Reese took the opportunity to clone it.

Hart began to jump from foot to foot.

Another five minutes passed before the white extended van came around the corner and stopped in front of them. Dylan opened the door and Hart climbed aboard eagerly. He sat down and reached for his seatbelt. Before the van pulled away, Dylan sprinted to the public bus stop and just barely got on the departing bus.

Reese walked back to his car, glanced at his watch. Even if the bus didn't make any stops at all — which wouldn't happen at this hour of the morning — their Number was going to be late for work again.

"Still nothing on potential threats?" he asked, sticking close behind the bus.

"Nothing," Finch confirmed tersely. "I almost wonder if our young man isn't about to do something desperate."

"Possible." Reese could remember more than a few Numbers who'd been about to perpetrate a crime out of desperation, and an least half of them had been under much less pressure than Dylan Roth was. "If that's the case, we need to figure out when and where."

Harold sighed, but did not answer. Reese knew he'd been up all night, at his computer. They'd chatted on and off through the dark hours. "You should take Bear for a walk," he suggested. "Get a little sunlight. I'll stick with Dylan."

"Hmmmm."

Which meant, Reese knew, that his partner wasn't going anywhere. He nodded, pleased against his will. The uncertainty about this Number was wearing on him. It had been more than twelve hours since the Machine had identified Dylan Roth. The clock was running. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen soon, and he was no closer to knowing what it was.

Or stopping it.

He was glad Finch was staying with him.

* * *

Carter carried two cups of coffee in one hand and the case file under her arm. She made her way down the shift-change crowded corridor carefully, but rather cheerfully. Finch sent her on rather a lot of unpleasant tasks, but this one she didn't mind.

She knocked on the frame of the open office door. Alvarez looked up and smiled at her. "Carter! Come on in."

She gave him one of the coffees and sat down across the desk from him. "Hey, Alvarez. How've you been?"

"Can't complain," he answered. "Doesn't do any good."

"I hear that."

"And you?"

"Busy. As usual." Actually, Carter thought, her case load was down quite a bit. So were all the other homicide detectives'. But nobody was complaining.

"So you had to go stir up some more work, too, huh?"

He held his hand out for the case file and Carter gave it to him. "I don't think it's anything," she said, "but after that last time, any time I smell smoke I take another look."

Alvarez flipped the case file open. "Oh," he said, "this one."

"You recognize it?" she asked, surprised. "I didn't see your name on any of the reports."

"I didn't work it," he answered, "but I reviewed it." He held the page up and pointed to a little squiggle in the bottom right corner. Carter had seen it, guessed it was someone's initials, but she hadn't known they were his. "It was a bad one. Parents dead, one of the boys … and the other one, still alive, but …"

"Was he injured?"

"Some burns, nothing major. His room was at the back of the house, by the stairs. He got out okay. The others were at the front." Alvarez shook his head. "But he was messed up. Catatonic. Wouldn't talk to anybody, wouldn't make eye contact. Kept trying to curl up in a fetal position. Kind of stuff you see in a little kid, you know? But this boy was late teens, early twenties. Had some kind of mental disability, I heard later. Miracle he got out of the house."

"Anything suspicious about the fire?" Carter asked.

"No. Christmas tree. Mice got at the wiring for the lights."

"Smoke detectors?"

"Three of them. Two in the back of the house, one in the kitchen and one at the top of the stairs. They both went off. The one outside the front bedrooms was on the hall table, open. The battery was out."

"So they took it down and didn't replace it."

"Looks like." Alvarez shook his head. "Old house, no sprinklers, of course. So the lights shorted out, the tree caught, then the wall, and the fire shot straight up inside the wall to the second floor. By the time the smoke alarms in the back went off, the vics were probably already unconscious, maybe dead."

Carter consulted her notes. "There was another brother, right?"

"Yeah. He wasn't living at home at the time. Showed up at the hospital for his brother. Nice lookin' kid, young."

"But he didn't have anything to do with the fire."

"No. He'd been out with friends. We poked around a little bit, but there was nothing there." He closed the file and passed it back. "It was a sad thing. But definitely an accident."

Carter nodded to herself. "Good. Thanks for your help."

"Thanks for the coffee."

* * *

Dylan Roth flat-out ran from the bus stop into the building. He didn't even slow down to wave at Ellie as he hurried past the office windows. He skidded at the end of the call, around the corner from the time clock. He was already late, but if he could get there fast enough he could be inside a five-minute window instead of even later.

But then he stopped dead. Because he wasn't going to get to the time clock. Garrison was waiting there, with a time card that Dylan knew was his in his hand. He looked grim, troubled.

Quarterman was standing right beside him. He had a personnel folder in his hand. Roth knew that that was his, too. The big boss looked pissed off.

He dropped his chin to his chest. Then he took a deep breath, looked up, and walked over to them. "Good morning," he said quietly.

"You're late," Quarterman said sharply.

"I know. I'm sorry."

Garrison said, "I told Mr. Quarterman about the issue with your brother …"

"I understand your family problems," Quarterman said. "But you need to understand that this is my business. If you're not here, we have to cover your place on the line. If we have to cover too many places, we can't start production. All these people just standing around with their hands in the pockets, because your brother can't get on the bus? I can't do it, Danny. I just can't."

"It's Dylan."

"What?"

"My name. It's Dylan."

Quarterman looked more pissed, if that was even possible. "Right, right. Sorry. The point is, Dylan, I've got to let you go. Drop your ID in the office. Garrison will have some paperwork for you to sign."

"Yes, sir."

He walked away without another word.

Garrison sighed. "I'm really sorry, Dylan. I tried to talk him out of it …"

Roth shook his head. "It's my own fault, Mr. Garrison. I know you gave me way more chances than you should have."

"Are you going to be okay? You and your brother?"

Dylan felt cold and sick. Were they going to be okay? He couldn't imagine how. He just couldn't think about it right now. He needed to not think about it. "We'll figure something out," he said calmly. "We'll figure something out."

* * *

"Mr. Reese," Finch said in his ear. "If Dylan Roth was stressed out by the situation with his brother before …"

"I know, Finch," Reese answered. "Losing his job may be the last straw. I'll stick close to him."

He listened as the young man filled out his exit paperwork. Their Number was very quiet, subdued. A couple of the office ladies spoke to him; one was probably Ellie, the one he had a crush on. He didn't say much, just thanked them and left.

When he came out of the building, Reese could see the despair in the young man's posture. He looked simply defeated. He didn't go to the bus stop; instead, he walked to a little park at the corner and sat on a bench. He didn't seem to know what to do next.

"Can we find him a new job, Finch?" Reese finally said quietly.

"We can," Finch confirmed. "Provided he's not about to attempt to murder his brother."

"I don't …" Reese stopped. A man was walking from the other side of the park toward Roth. He wore a gray hooded sweatshirt with the hood up and big sunglasses. He had his hands in his front pocket. He walked with purpose, with a destination. "Damn it!"

"Mr. Reese?"

Reese didn't answer. He moved. But the man got to Dylan before he did. And pulled a gun. "Give me your wallet," he demanded.

Roth looked up. "Huh?"

"Your wallet. And your cell phone. You got a watch?"

"No." Dylan reached for his pocket slowly. "Look, I … I don't have very much money, but you can take it, I just, please, I need to keep my wallet."

The gun came up. "Did it sound like I wanted to discuss it?"

"No, I'm sorry, I just …"

Reese taped the gunman on the shoulder. "Excuse me," he said.

The mugger wheeled. Reese hit him. He dropped.

Dylan stared at John. "I … you …"

"You okay?"

"I …"

Reese leaned down and took the gun away from the mugger. Then he rolled him over and took his wallet, dropped them both in his coat pocket. The man was starting to stir. Reese pulled him up by his collar with one hand, hit him again with the other. He slumped back to the ground.

Dylan still stared at him. He went pale, the shock finally catching up to him. "I … you …"

"You need a ride somewhere?" Reese offered.

"Who are you?"

"Just a guy in the park."

"You … thank you."

Reese nodded. "Ride?"

"N-no. Thanks, but I'm … um …" He looked around wildly. He was shaking now, genuinely scared, even though the threat was crumpled on the ground. "Thank you, but I … my bus is right there." He gestured; the bus was coming up the block. "I gotta … I gotta go."

Reese nodded calmly. "Be careful."

"Thanks again." Dylan turned and sprinted toward the bus stop.

John watched him get on the bus safely. Then he opened the mugger's wallet. "Len Bower," he told Finch. He took the money out of the wallet. There were five crisp hundred dollar bills, a five and four singles. He leaned down and searched the man's other pockets. Nothing. Reese rolled him over and zip-tied his hands behind him. He tucked the gun back into his waistband, in the front, and put his wallet back in his front pocket. Then he pulled out his phone and dialed Carter as he walked back to his car.

"Lemme guess," she sighed, "you dropped another body for me."

"He's not dead. Yet. His name is Len Bower."

There was a pause, filled with Carter's keyboard. "Armed robbery, assault, assault with a deadly weapon, possession of stolen property. He's on parole."

"Then that gun he's carrying will put him back inside," he said easily. "He just tried to mug a kid named Dylan Roth. I'm sending you the address."

"Is that the same Roth the survived the house fire?" she asked.

"His brother."

"You gonna tell me what kind of trouble he's in?"

"I will when I know. You might ask Bower when he wakes up."

"Hmmmm. Guess I better come and get him, then."

"Appreciate it." Reese got in his car and followed Dylan's bus.


	6. Chapter 6

**1974**

John was on the front porch, playing with his army men, when his mother came home. She walked up the steps slowly. Her eyes were red and bright, like she'd been crying. He sat up in alarm. "Mama?"

She dabbed at her eyes. "Hello, Johnny."

"What's wrong?" She'd been at his teacher conference. He thought he'd been doing pretty well in school. He didn't think he'd done anything bad enough to make his mother cry. He climbed to his feet and went to her. "I'm sorry, Mama. What did I do wrong?"

She put her arm around his shoulder. "Nothing, Johnny. You didn't do anything wrong."

"But you're crying." He felt sick. Seeing his mother cry always made him feel sick.

She led him over to the porch swing and they sat down. "Your friend Johnny, at school. Your teacher was telling me about him. You never told me he was in a wheelchair."

John frowned. He hadn't lied about it, so he didn't know why she was crying. "I didn't think it mattered."

His mother started to cry again.

"Mama," he protested, "you said I should treat everybody the same. Johnny's just all sort of tangled up. That doesn't mean he's bad."

"No, honey." She put her arms around him and hugged him to her chest. Usually he would have squirmed away — he was almost _seven_, after all — but this time it seemed important to let her hold on. "I don't think he's bad."

"Then why are you mad at me?"

"Oh, Johnny, I'm not mad at you. I'm proud of you. I'm so proud of you."

"Then why are you crying?"

She laughed, though more tears fell. "Sometimes people cry when they're happy."

He leaned back and looked up at her. "Why?"

Her laugh got bigger. "Oh, Johnny. That's hard to explain." She wiped her eyes again with one hand, kept her other arm around her. "Mrs. McGill says that you've done a really good job of looking out for Johnny. That you've been a good friend to him."

"I like him, Mama. He's really good at checkers."

"But you stay inside from recess to play with him?"

John shrugged. "He doesn't like to go out so much." He didn't say that that was because the other kids picked on him. That was too much like tattling. "And I don't mind."

She nodded. "I'm sure he really appreciates all you do for him, Johnny. But you need to play with your other friends, too, okay?"

"I play with them after school."

"Okay. Just … don't feel like you have to take care of Johnny all the time, okay? There are adults who should be responsible for him."

"I know. But they don't play checkers with him."

She smiled, though she was crying again. "Oh, you are such a sweet boy, Johnny." She kissed him on his forehead, smoothed down his cowlick. "All right. Go on and play. I'll make you a snack."

"Thanks, Mama." He slid off the swing and went back to his soldiers. He was still uneasy with her tears, and he wasn't quite sure what the big deal was about Johnny. But he wasn't in trouble, and when she brought him a plate of sugar cookies he knew she was happy with him.

He didn't get it. But he munched on a cookie and went back to playing happily.

* * *

**2013**

Finch picked through the records of one Len Bower with care. There wasn't much there. Mr. Bower wasn't a fan of social media. His driving record was terrible. So was his credit rating. He'd been to jail three times. None of which told Finch who might have hired him to attach Dylan Roth.

He could almost hear Reese's impatience over the silent comm. "I'm not finding anything," he finally admitted. "Perhaps Detective Carter will have better luck."

"I doubt it. He's a career criminal. Someone gave him some cash and pointed him in the right direction."

"Armed robbery," Finch mused. "Do you think he would have killed Mr. Roth?"

"I don't know. In an open park like that? It seems awfully unprofessional. More likely it was designed to scare Dylan."

"But to scare him into _what_?" Finch wondered aloud. "This young man is apparently unremarkable. He doesn't have anything or know anything that would be worth killing him for."

"What about life insurance from the parents?"

"Twenty-five thousand dollars. It covered the funerals and Hart's medical bills, not much else."

Reese sighed. "Keep looking."

"Of course. What's Dylan doing now?"

"He just sat down at a computer in the library. Can you tell what he's looking at?"

"Give me a moment." Finch didn't have any trouble locating the library; he slid through their firewall with relative ease. He looked at the young man's internet search. "Mr. Reese? He's looking for a new job."

"If he's looking for a job …" Reese began.

"He's unlikely to be planning on murder or suicide," Finch completed. They'd both known after the attack in the park that he was most likely the victim. It was good to have confirmation.

"I like this kid, Finch."

"As do I, Mr. Reese."

"Let's keep him alive, then."

Finch nodded to himself. He looked at the resume Mr. Roth had posted on the job search site. Then he signed onto the Coronet's intranet and sent a message to his general manager.

Before he finished, his phone peeped with a schedule reminder. Finch scowled at it. Then he stood up and reached for his jacket. Bear stood up eagerly. "Not this time," Finch told him. The dog flopped back down, disappointed.

As a consolation, Finch reached up on a high shelf and brought down a squeaky toy, one of the few with the squeaker still intact. He squeezed it twice, then tossed it to the dog. Bear grabbed it and chewed it joyously.

It was still squeaking when Finch left the library.

* * *

Bower looked mildly concerned. "How come Homicide?" he asked. "I didn't kill anybody."

"So you say." Carter flipped through his file casually. "But we think you were planning to."

He laughed harshly. "I never killed anybody in my life."

"Not so far." She closed the folder and sat back. "So how come you went after that kid in the park? He didn't have anything."

"Well I didn't know that, did I?"

"All the other robberies your pulled, they've been guys in suits, Wall Street types. And you've hit them after dark. Looks like you like parking garages. But this kid? Middle of a park, middle of the day? C'mon. What were you really after?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, lady."

"Detective," she corrected him. She taped the evidence bag with the five crisp hundred dollar bills in it. "Here's what I think. I think somebody paid you five hundred dollars to mug this kid. I want to know who, and I want to know why."

Bower shook his head. "My aunt gave me that money for my birthday. She told me to buy myself something nice."

"Your birthday was two months ago."

"I haven't picked out anything yet," he sneered.

"I see."

"And what about the guy that hit me? What are you doing about him?"

Carter tilted her head at him. "What guy?"

"The guy in the suit."

"Nobody saw anybody like that."

"So what, you think I tied myself up?"

She shrugged. "Maybe. Don't know. Don't really care. Who paid you to rob Dylan Roth?"

"Don't know who that is."

"The kid in the park."

Bower shook his head. "Just a kid. He looked like an easy mark."

"Middle of the day, out in the open, and you already had five hundred in your pocket. Seems too stupid even for you, Bower."

He sat back. "I wanna see my lawyer."

"You got a lawyer?"

"I want a public defender."

Carter nodded again. She already knew she wasn't going to get anywhere with this one. He was going back to prison just for having the weapon and he knew it. She had no leverage. "Sure you don't want to talk about a deal?"

Bower raised one eyebrow. "You got a deal that lets me not do any more time?"

"No."

"Didn't think so." He sat back and closed his eyes. "Let me know when he gets here."

Carter picked up the folder and left the room.

* * *

Harold pulled a stack of papers over in front of him on the broad, polished desk and picked up a pen. Then, as the door opened, he put the pen down, slid the papers away and stood up. "Julie!" he said warmly. He went around the desk and gave the young woman a quick hug as his ever-discrete assistant closed the door behind her and left them alone.

"I hope I'm not disrupting your morning," Julie Carson said. She smiled, but she seemed nervous.

"You are not," Harold assured her, "and even if you were, I will always find time in my schedule for you."

She noticed the wall of windows behind him. "Wow, that's quite a view."

"It is, isn't it?" He gestured her over for a closer look. "I love being able to watch how the city constantly evolves out there."

Julie stood and looked out for a long moment. Harold took the opportunity to study her. Her hair was a little longer than it had been at Christmas, still blonde, though he didn't think that was her natural color. When he'd first seen her the year before, he'd made the assumption that the hair color was part of her undercover persona, and a way to mask her strong resemblance to her family. Since she was no longer employed by the government, he was inclined to believe that it was now her token resistance, her way to stand out from the sea of siblings and cousins that constituted the Carson family.

That, or she was aware that Will Ingram had always shown a strong preference for blondes.

Or maybe some of both.

She looked healthy, stronger than she had. Happy. But tense, too. It was in her back, her neck, her shoulders.

"So what can I do for you, Miss Carson?" he prompted gently.

"Julie," she corrected. She turned to face him, licked her lips. "I, um, I need to talk to you. About Will."

"Obviously."

"Obviously?"

"Otherwise you would have brought him with you." Harold gestured her back around the desk to one of chairs for guests; he dropped into the other one, scooted it around to face her. "What's he done now?"

"Nothing," she promised. She looked around the office again, her brown eyes troubled. "But if he finds out I'm here …"

"So he must not find out," Harold answered simply. He nodded toward the door. "I assure you, Ms. Wilson is the very soul of discretion."

Julie smiled a little. "And you?"

"Julie," Harold said, leaning forward, "let me be clear. You and I both know that Will has a number of wonderful qualities. But he lacks a certain inborn sense of … self-preservation. You, on the other hand, seem to possess a keen sense of caution that Will lacks. And I appreciate that, very much. If there are things in his life that concern you, my knowledge and my resources are _always_ available to you. And Will emphatically does _not_ need to know."

She nodded thoughtfully. He knew she was remembering the night she'd been injured, the night she'd broken so much of her own body, rescuing Will. The night she and Harold had both lied to him. They'd never discussed those lies, he and Julie. They never would.

"So," he prompted, "what's worrying you?"

"Scotty Fitzgerald."

Harold blinked. When Julie had called him, he'd thought he'd anticipated every possible reason for the young woman's visit, but he hadn't considered this one. "I … don't think Will has any … romantic interest in her …"

"No," Julie said quickly. "I'm not jealous of her. I mean, not that way, anyhow."

"Oh."

"But she's kind of …" Julie hesitated. "You know she's looking at Nathan's documents for Will, right?"

"I'd heard, yes."

"You know she's not charging him anything for it?"

Harold shifted in his chair. Will Ingram had taken Christine's offer at face value, of course, but the young man's lover was more cautious. A great deal more cautious. He genuinely didn't want to do anything to quash that impulse. "I understood that they'd worked out some sort of barter arrangement."

"In theory." Julie made a little face. "She's a professional technology consultant. But she's signed on for probably hundreds of hours of this project, just out of the goodness of her heart? I can't …" She checked her tone a little, leaned forward. "I don't mean that the way it sounds. I just … I know you introduced the two of them, that you've worked with her before. But you actually _pay_ her for the work she does, right?"

"I do, or the client does, generally," Harold answered. It wasn't precisely a lie; it was simply that the payment terms weren't nearly as straightforward as the young woman probably assumed.

She made the same face again, clearly caught between a deep need for information and a desperate attempt not to offend Harold. "Please just tell me you ran a background check on her."

"You want to know if I performed due diligence before I turned a notorious hacker loose on the information systems of my most valued clients?" He smiled easily. "Of course I did. And more to the point, I would never have introduced her to Will if I didn't trust her completely."

Julie smiled back, finally relaxing. "That's really all I needed to hear. I should have just asked that in the first place. I could have done that on the phone."

"But then I wouldn't have gotten to show off the view."

Julie looked toward the windows. "It is spectacular." She turned back to Harold. "I'm just paranoid, I guess. I'm sorry."

"There is nothing to be sorry about," he promised. "I imagine you're used to seeing threats everywhere. And after last year's … unpleasantness …"

"Unpleasantness?" She smiled broadly at the understatement. Two kidnappings, two of Will's friends murdered, a psychopathic master assassin, a dozen or more hired guns. Betrayal by her State Department handler, and a four-story fall that should have ended her life and did end her career. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"It is, yes," he stated calmly. "For lack of a better term."

She nodded her agreement. "Will's taking me to meet his mom this weekend."

Harold wasn't sure if that was a change of subject or a continuation on the theme of unpleasantness. He kept his smile deliberately encouraging, rather than sympathetic. "I'm sure Olivia will love you."

"That's what Will says." Julie sounded far from certain.

"Believe him. What Olivia wants most of all is to see her son happy. And you obviously make Will happy. There's nothing to worry about." It wasn't really that simple, Harold thought. The fact that Julie had a family pedigree and money of her own, and wasn't pursuing Will for his, would weigh heavily in her favor. But the result would be the same; he was quite certain Nathan's ex-wife would embrace this intelligent, thoughtful young woman.

Perhaps he was being unfair to Olivia, though. She and Harold had disliked each other from the first days of her relationship with Nathan. She'd been jealous of their friendship, he'd assumed; of their closeness and the amount of time the men spent together. But she had been very intentional about not letting her dislike for Harold show to her husband, especially once the men began to grow wealthy together. And when Will was born, Olivia had exerted considerably effort into making sure Harold was included in the boy's life.

It had taken Harold some time to figure out that while Olivia didn't like him personally, she accepted that he loved both Nathan and Will, and that they loved him. She had been careful not to interfere with those relationships. Harold had returned the courtesy; he'd never said a word against Olivia to the boy or his father.

When Nathan had begun his serial infidelities, the unspoken understanding between them had become significantly more cordial. Olivia had had bigger threats to deal with then.

And when Nathan was gone, his ex-wife had wholeheartedly encouraged Will to turn to his godfather for guidance and comfort.

If Olivia didn't like Julie Carson, Harold was certain that she'd recognize the young woman's value in her son's life and accept her for that alone. Will would never know the difference. But Harold was fairly certain that she would, in fact, adore Julie. He couldn't see any reason that she wouldn't.

Julie stared out at the view again. "I hope she likes me," she said, "but if she doesn't, we're leaving the country next week anyhow."

"That is one way to look at it," Harold agreed. "You're satisfied with your security arrangements? For the Jordan trip?"

"I am. And State is. He'll be okay."

"I want _both of you_ to be okay."

"Thank you." And then, "It'll be good to be out there again. Will's not really happy unless he's in some Third World backwater working sixty hours at a stretch."

"And you?" Harold asked gently. "What do you want to do?"

Julie shrugged; her eyes dropped away. "I was doing what I wanted to do. I mean, it wasn't glamorous, but the travel, the people, the intel – I was useful." She gestured toward her leg, which had been shattered in her fall. It was healed now, but it was undoubtedly weakened. "It'll be different, doing for real what I pretended to do before. It might be kind of nice, only having one job. And not keeping all those secrets. And I _will_ be useful, I know." She shrugged. "Honestly, I feel like we're both kind of drifting. But we're drifting together. And that's enough, for now."

Drifting, Harold thought, but very wealthy. From a financial perspective, neither of them had to work another day in their lives, together or separately. But idleness wasn't in their natures. A month or two of luxurious inactivity had been enough. They were ready to work again. Eager.

He liked that about them.

"But?" he prompted gently.

"But I can see that sooner or later we're going to have to stop chasing gunfire and do something else."

"I can't say that I'll be sorry to see that day," Harold said sincerely. "Will said once, more than once, that he wanted to do something bigger than treating the symptoms. Than patching people up."

She nodded. "He's told me that, too. He just hasn't figured out exactly what he wants to do yet."

"You have time."

"I know."

"I think — and this is largely speculation — that that may be where Miss Fitzgerald finds herself, as well."

"Drifting?" Julie seemed surprised. "How so?"

He chose his words with care. "Miss Fitzgerald's internship at IFT, and the fact that Nathan himself selected her for it, may have carried great significance for her. For someone of his stature to notice her, to value her intelligence, when perhaps no one in her life ever had … she still carries that picture with her, after all this time. And it is, I assure you, quite an awful picture of her."

"But why do you think she's drifting?"

"She's done what she wanted to do. She's cobbled together a decent education for herself. She has her home, her businesses. Financial security. She's helped her neighborhood a great deal. She's respectable and respected. But I have the sense she's starting to look around and wonder, what's next?" He shrugged. "As I said, it's mainly speculation. But I get the same sense of restlessness from her that I've often seen in Will."

Julie looked at him for a long moment, and Harold could see a puzzled speculation in her eyes, as well. Finally she said, "You think she's looking to Will for answers?"

"I think she may be looking to _Nathan_ for answers." He nodded to himself. "Will said that the contents of those boxes was like reading his father's unedited autobiography. In studying his papers, Christine is studying Nathan. His choices, his successes, his failures. She's looking to her mentor again for guidance. And she may very well find it."

"That makes sense." Julie nodded slowly. "I like it better than thinking she's just a rabid Nathan fangirl."

"Well, she may be that, too," he admitted with a laugh. "She does seem quite adamantly smitten."

"Adamantly smitten. That's a great description." The young woman rolled to her feet. "But if that is what she's doing, I don't think she doesn't know she's doing it."

"No. I'm sure she doesn't." Harold stood up to join her. "And it might be best if Miss Fitzgerald didn't hear anything about this conversation."

"That will be easy. Since we're not even _having_ this conversation."

"Of course."

"And thank you. For not thinking I'm crazy. Or at least not saying it out loud."

"I don't think you're crazy," he assured her. "Perhaps a bit overprotective, but I have no objection to that. And as I said, if I can be of any assistance, in any way …"

"I'll call you. When are we going to dinner?"

"Ahhh – not tonight. Or tomorrow. Client meetings, I'm afraid."

"I'll have Will call you when we get back from his mother's, then."

"Yes, good. I'll be eager to hear about it." He smiled and hugged her. "Don't worry. It will be fine."

Harold showed her out and gave her a ten minute head start before he left the office himself. He changed his glasses in the elevator, and changed his mind set at the same time. His posture changed subtly; his accent moderated a note or two.

By the time he reached the ground floor, Wren was gone and he was Finch again.

* * *

Reese followed Dylan Roth through an uneventful afternoon.

The young man stayed at the library for several hours, posting his resume to job sites and applying for on-line jobs. Then he sat down and read the local papers, taking notes on the scratch paper the library provided by the card catalog computers. He went outside and sat on the steps to eat his bag lunch. Then he went back in, used the washroom, and wandered the stacks for a while.

No one presented any threat to him.

Carter called and reported that Len Bower refused to admit that anyone had paid him to attack Dylan. Reese wasn't surprised. He thanked her, ended the call, touched his earpiece. "Finch?"

"I'm here, Mr. Reese. Still no closer to identifying any threat to Mr. Roth, I'm afraid."

"You get anything on Bower?"

"No more than Detective Carter did. He has an assortment of criminal associates, but none that I can connect in any way to our Number."

Reese growled softly. He could feel the clock running, faster now. All he could do was follow the young man, protect him as the threats arose. He didn't like it.

Around three in the afternoon, Roth got on another bus. Reese followed him to the Day-by-Day Adult Care Center and watched as he went inside.


	7. Chapter 7

**1975**

"How was your first day of school, Johnny?"

John hung his book bag on the hook by the front door. "It was good. I have Mrs. Smith this year. She's nice."

His mother gave him a quick kiss, smoothed down his cowlick. "Go get changed and I'll get you a snack."

"Okay. Can I go play baseball?"

"No homework?"

He grinned. "It's the first day. I've got some papers you're supposed to sign."

"Get them out. Then you can go."

He ran upstairs and changed into his play clothes. Then he ran back down, got the school forms out of his bag, and went to the kitchen. His mother had made him a sandwich and a glass of milk.

"Johnny's not there," he said.

"What?"

"Johnny, from last year? He's not there anymore."

"Oh."

"Mrs. Smith says they moved away this summer."

"That's too bad." His mother brought sat down at the table with him. "I know you liked him a lot. Maybe we could get their address and you could write to him."

John nodded doubtfully. He wasn't very good at writing, and he knew Johnny was even worse. "I could ask."

"I'll send a note to the office," his mother said.

John nodded again. He wolfed down the rest of his sandwich and ran out to play baseball.

* * *

**2013**

Dylan Roth still felt like his brain was swimming in molasses. Even since Quarterman had fired him he'd been off kilter, foggy. The only moment of clarity had come when the man in the park pointed the gun at him. He'd been wide awake then. But by the time the bus arrived at the library, the fog had settled again. He'd applied for lots of jobs. Then he went to Day-by-Day and asked to see the director. He wasn't looking forward to it. Jackson made time for him right away.

Dylan sat down in the little office and shook his head, trying to clear it. "Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Jackson."

The taller man nodded. "You know I'm always happy to meet with family member, Dylan. Is there some concern with Hart?"

"N-no," Dylan said. He twisted his hands in his lap, made himself stop. "I don't know how to … the thing is, I, um, I lost my job this morning. So I'm going to have to … I'm really sorry, Mr. Jackson, but I'm going to have to pull Hart out of the program, at least for now. I don't know how we're going to manage otherwise."

Jackson nodded thoughtfully. "You know Hart won't deal well with a change like that. He relies on his routine."

"I know," Dylan answered miserably. "I just … we don't have any savings. I don't know what else I can do."

"And it will be difficult for you to look for a job, while you're looking after Hart."

"I know." This would have been so much easier when Mrs. Day still owned the center. She was easy to talk to. He barely knew Jackson. But he had to get through it. "And I know you can't hold a spot for him here. But as soon as I get work, I'll re-apply, see if you can get him back in. I just … I really don't see any choice."

Jackson stood and walked to the window. "He's done really well here, Dylan. He's made great improvement."

"I know." Dylan was deeply unhappy already; the man wasn't helping.

"I think he should stay."

Dylan opened his hands. The guy just wasn't getting it. "I wish he could, but …"

"But you need to pay your rent," Jackson said. He came back and leaned against the desk. "I understand that. But taking Dylan out of the program now would cause him a major set-back, and this may only be a temporary situation. A smart young man like you, you may find a new job right away. It would be unfortunate to disrupt Hart for a short-term issue."

"I know, Mr. Jackson, believe me …"

"I'm going to waive Hart's fee for the next month."

Dylan looked up at him, startled. "You're what?"

"You're paid through the end of this month. Consider next month a scholarship month. No fee required. That will give you some time to look for a job, get back on your feet, without having to disrupt Hart's schedule. How does that sound?"

Dylan thought his chest might explode with relief. It would be _so_ much better, for Hart and for him both. "That would be … Mr. Jackson, I can't tell you … it would mean so much to him, to me, I can't …"

"I think it would be best for Hart. And for you. I'll run it by corporate, but I'm sure it will be fine."

"Thank you so much."

Jackson went back around the desk and sat down. "Good. Then that's settled. Let me know how the job search goes. I'll put an ear to the ground for you, too, let you know if I hear of anything."

"I can't tell you how much I appreciate this." Dylan's head finally cleared again. If he could keep Hart in the program for another month — that would make things so much easier. He couldn't believe Jackson was doing this for him. "Thank you."

"Of course. I know we're the new ownership, but we care about our clients. And their families." Jackson sat back. "While you're here, Dylan, tell me — how are things with you? I mean, aside from the job issue?"

Dylan shrugged uneasily. "They're … you know. It's tough, with Hart. Sometimes."

"He requires a great deal of your time."

"Yeah."

"I don't imagine you have much of a social life, with taking care of him every night."

Roth was growing more uneasy by the minute. "We do okay. Go out for pizza once in a while, stuff like that."

"But not anything like a date, for you. No time for a girlfriend."

"No. But that's okay. I was never very good with women anyhow."

Jackson nodded thoughtfully. Then he reached behind him to a stack of documents. "I'd like you to consider something, Dylan. I think we've talked about the residential program before …"

"I don't think Hart could handle it," Dylan said immediately. _Even if we could afford it_, he thought, _which we can't. _"He's so set in his routines." He took the paper Jackson pushed toward him, just to be polite.

"We've been very successful in integrating new patients into the group home," Jackson answered. "Several of Hart's friends are living here now. There's a period of adjustment, certainly. And we'd need you to work with Hart through that period. And of course you'd be welcome to visit him at any time, day or night. Once he was adjusted you could even sign him out for overnight visits, if you didn't think that would be too disruptive for him."

"I couldn't …"

"I know that you feel like you're responsible for your brother, Dylan. I understand that perfectly, believe me. But you wouldn't be abandoning him here. He would get the best of care, he'd been in secure surroundings that would allow him to feel safe. He'd have his routines. His friends. Familiar staff. I think," the man paused, then nodded, "I think in the long run it might be the best thing for Hart. And for you, Dylan."

Roth shook his head. "I couldn't." He tried to give the paper back.

Jackson shook him off. "Just think about it, will you? Give it until the end of this scholarship period, give it some real thought. What it could mean for Hart, and for you. It would open up your options for employment, for one thing. And your options for having a life of your own. You're a young man, Dylan. I can't imagine you spending the rest of your life taking care of your brother."

_I can_, Dylan thought hopelessly. _I can._ "I appreciate the offer, Mr. Jackson. But I don't think it's possible. Financially …"

"We have a number of generous benefactors," Jackson said quickly. "If this is something that you and your brother decide to do, we can make the financial situation work."

"Oh."

"Just give it some thought," the director urged again. "I know it's a difficult decision. And either way, as I said, Hart is welcome to stay through next month. But I think you need to think about the future, Dylan. Both yours and your brother's. It's hard to consider, but … I know you're Hart's only family. What would happen to him if something happened to you? If you got sick and had to be hospitalized, for example? If you slipped on the stairs and broke your leg? How would you manage, with no other family?"

Dylan felt the color drain out of his face. _What if I got shot by a mugger in the park?_ His mind flashed to the gun again, and then to the tall man in the black coat who'd rescued him. What if he hadn't been there? Never mind breaking a leg. If the man had taken his wallet, Dylan wouldn't have had bus fare to get home. And what would have happened to Hart then?

He felt sick.

"I'll think about it," he said, putting the flyer in his pocket. "I'll talk to Hart."

"Good. Good." Jackson nodded. "I would imagine that Hart will be reluctant, at first. It is a very big change for him. But he likes it here very much. In the long run, it might be the best thing. For both of you."

"I'll think about it," Dylan said again. He stood up. "Thank you so much, for everything."

"I'm glad I can help, even in a small way." Jackson rolled to his feet, shook Dylan's hand firmly. "You let me know what else you need. Keep in touch, okay?"

"I will. Thank you again."

Dylan left the office and went to the front desk to sign Hart out. Not riding the van would shake his brother a little, he knew, but as long as he was with him Hart would be okay.

His head was still thick with fog, and now with new possibilities. He'd decided when his parents died that he would always take care of his brother. And he would stick to that, until he died. But maybe Jackson was right; maybe the best way he could take care of him was to let him live here. Hart would be safe here. And he did like it.

And he would have a fit if Dylan brought it up.

After dinner, Dylan decided. He needed that long to get his head clear. After dinner he'd see if they could talk about it.

"That's a very generous offer," Reese said drily over the comm.

"You don't rely on the kindness of strangers?" Finch answered.

"Do you?"

"I suppose we are strangers to most of the people we're kind to."

Reese grunted. "Could they be after Hart for some reason?"

Finch stared at his screens, his eyes narrow, but no search parameters occurred to him. "I can't imagine why. If they were trying to fill the residential side with private-pay patients, that might be a reasonable assumption, but to take state disability and offer a discount, I can't see the profit. "

"What about Scollard, the guy who was creating fake foster children?" Reese asked, thinking back to the Gutierrez case. "Could it be some kind of scam like that?"

"It might be, but I don't know they'd need Hart." Finch paused. "Unless they don't know that there's no insurance money, and that seems unlikely." He stood up and paced from his desk to the active board. "I don't know, Mr. Reese. It seems perverse to suspect this man because he's trying to help these brothers. But I honestly don't know where else to look. There is nothing about Dylan that would make someone want to kill him."

"And the clock's still running," Reese reminded him.

"I know. I know." Harold stared at the board a while longer. He combed mentally through all the details of the young man's life. The girl he liked at the company. He'd never even asked her out, and she had no other boyfriend. His co-workers — now former co-workers. No one had loaned him money or borrowed any from him. He didn't socialize with any of them. His boss? A thoroughly unlikeable man, but with no personal interest that Finch could see. The neighbor who'd locked Hart in the closet? Apparently happy enough to take Dylan's money, and she had no idea she'd been discovered. No sudden influx of money that suggested dealings with a loan shark. No drug habit in evidence. No disreputable friends. Nothing. There was just nothing.

He sighed heavily and returned to his keyboard to research Day-by-Day.

* * *

Christine looked around the concourse of Madison Square Garden. It was only moderately crowded, and the crowd was older and mostly sober. Unlikely any sort of riot would break out. She checked the exits anyhow. Habits died hard; establishing escape routes were her comfort routine.

"You okay?" Fusco asked.

"Yeah. Fine." She glanced at him over Lee's head. "Why am I at a hockey game again?"

"Because they don't play baseball in the winter. And my girlfriend stood me up. And you didn't have plans." He shrugged. "Give it a try. You might like it."

It had smelled like a set-up to Christine when he and Lee had come into Chaos with the claim of an extra ticket, and it still did. Like he's been sent on a mission, to get her out of the café and out into society. She'd initially suspected Finch. But now, on reflection, it had John Reese's fingerprints all over it. If he'd sent anyone but Fusco she would have refused. And the bastard knew it.

"I need a rule book or something."

Fusco shook his head. "No, you don't. A puck goes in the goal, that's one point. Most points at the end of three periods wins. That's all you need to know."

"Why three periods? Why not four like normal sports?"

"Nobody can skate more than sixty minutes," Lee answered simply. "Your legs give out."

"Hmmm."

The boy was terse, tense. Almost as tense as Christine was. He'd been that way in the café, too. It was part of the reason she'd agreed to come. She could fix it. She just needed a little time alone with him.

Fusco said, "I gotta go pick up the tickets. Just take a minute."

"We'll wait here," Christine said. She put her hand on Lee's shoulder and pulled him back against the wall, out of the foot traffic. Fusco walked over to the will-call window.

"Hey," she said to the boy, "you okay?"

"Yeah." He wouldn't look at her.

"I told you I wouldn't tell your dad. And I won't. As long as you keep your nose clean. Yeah?"

He looked up then, shyly. "Yeah?"

"I promise."

The smile broadened into a grin. "It was dumb."

"Yep. But it's over."

"Cool." The boy relaxed, like she'd pulled a plug and let the tension drain out of him.

A vendor walked buy with programs, and Christine forked over the money for it. "There's got to be more than scoring to this. There must be stats."

"Oh, sure," Lee told her. "Shots on goal, assists, power plays, saves, penalties, all kinds of stuff."

She nodded, feeling better herself. "I thought so." She flipped through the program. "So who's our favorite player? Do we have one?"

"Not in there. Those are the Rangers."

Christine frowned at him. "We're not Rangers fans?"

"Hell no. Bruins, all the way."

"We're Boston fans."

"Yeah."

"In New York City."

He smirked a little. "Dad's got a gun. It'll be okay."

"Ohhhhhh." Christine grinned uneasily. "It's _that_ kind of sporting event." She looked over the crowd again, from a whole new perspective. She was still pissed at Reese, but the night had just gotten a lot more interesting.

* * *

Avery Fornaris called his contact. "I have something new." He looked at the code that filled his computer screen. "Something new and very interesting."

"Send it over."

He already had the e-mail ready; he hit send.

"Not very big," the man said.

"It's a sample. If your resident geniuses can crack this, we'll have a much bigger project for you. A very profitable project. _Very _profitable."

"I'll get them right on it."

"Time is of the essence," Fornaris said. "The sooner we can access this data, the more valuable it is. And you are not our only resource for this project. First one back with the sample gets the assignment. Understand?"

"Of course."

Fornaris hung up his phone and studied the code again. He couldn't make any sense of it, of course. It was just so much gibberish. But he wasn't a code monkey. He just hired them.

* * *

Reese watched the brothers clean up after dinner. "Anything, Finch?" he asked.

"Nothing conclusive," his partner answered over the comm. "Day-by-Day was originally founded by Lucy Day; she was the owner and operator until just over a year ago. Then she sold the center to a company called Lanoux Health Centers. They are a national chain, for-profit of course, but they have a decent reputation. Phillip Jackson came in as the director. He's the gentleman we heard with Dylan earlier."

"The kind stranger," Reese scowled.

"Yes." Finch paused. "They've made some changes, I'm sure to maximize profits. Closed the kitchen in the day care center and brought in outside prepared meals, for example. Streamlined staffing a bit; consolidated bus routes. But none of these steps should have had a significant impact on client care."

Reese got out of his car and walked to the end of the block, looking around. There was no one who attracted his particular attention. "What about the residential center?"

"Again, some steps to increase profits, but … it's rather odd. The residence has fifteen beds. In the five years before Lanoux took over, only two patients left the facility. In the year since, they've removed and replace seven."

"Really."

"And as I've said, it would be a sensible approach if they were looking to fill the beds with private-pay patients, but they're not. Of the seven new residents, four are on state benefits."

"They still might be cooking the books. Double-counting somehow." Reese stretched, walked back to the car.

"I don't see any evidence of that, but I'll continue digging." Finch's tone changed. "You must be exhausted, Mr. Reese. Do you want me to come and relieve you for the night?"

John thought about it. He'd been following Dylan Roth for most of two days, with only cat naps in the car. But if he left him now, with Finch or with Carter to watch him, he wouldn't get any sleep anyhow. "I'm fine, Finch. You ought to go home and get some sleep, though. Wherever home is."

The recluse didn't take the bait, of course. "I can rest here, Mr. Reese."

"Hmm." Reese got back in the car, put the driver's seat all the way back, and let his head rest against the seat. "Wake me if anything happens."

"I will. Sweet dreams."

John grunted, but with the old habits of a soldier, he was asleep before he could form a teasing retort.


	8. Chapter 8

After the first period, Christine slipped out to the ladies room. Fusco wondered if she was going to skip out on him, but he couldn't very well follow her. She seemed okay, anyhow. Mr. Happy had been concerned about her, but as far as the detective could see, she was fine. Wound a little tight, but then Scotty always was. She didn't seem nearly as stressed out as Carter was lately. Or even as much as Wonderboy himself.

He glanced at his son. Lee had seemed stressed out, too, on the way over, but he'd relaxed once they got to their seats. He'd talked through the whole first period, teaching Scotty the finer points of the game. They were having a good time, all of them.

"Told you you'd like her," he said.

Lee nodded. "Scotty? She's okay." He looked away. "I kinda liked Rhonda better, though."

"She'll come with us next time."

The boy looked back quickly. "I thought you broke up."

"What? No. Just her sister's dumbass boyfriend … _dummy_ boyfriend, sorry …"

"Dad, I'm ten. I know what a dumbass is."

"Yeah," Fusco answered. "It's somebody who uses that word in front of his mom and says he learned it from me."

Lee giggled. "I'll be careful."

"You better be. Anyhow, the dumbass boyfriend pulled some crap on Rhonda's sister, so she had to go be with her tonight, that's all. We didn't break up or anything."

"But won't she be mad, if she finds out about Scotty?"

"Nah. She likes Scotty." Fusco looked over the crowd, then back at his son. "Oh. No. Scotty's not a girlfriend. This isn't a date. She's just a friend."

The boy grinned crookedly. "But she's a girl."

"Yes. She's a girl. And she's a friend. And what, am I back in middle school?" He ruffled his son's hair fondly. "She's a friend, that's all. She knows that, I know that, Rhonda knows that. And next game we'll bring Rhonda, if her sister's boyfriend quits being a dumbass. Okay?"

"Okay."

Fusco looked around again. Scotty still wasn't back. It had been about two minutes too long now.

"Hey, Dad?" Lee said quietly.

"Yeah?"

"She said she wouldn't tell you. Scotty."

"Tell me what?"

The boy stared at the back of the seat in front of him for a long time. Fusco watched him, suddenly concerned. "Lee. What didn't she tell me?"

His son wouldn't look at him, but he finally spoke. "One of my friends … me and one of my friends … on my computer, we were … looking at stuff."

"By stuff you mean porn," Fusco guessed

Lee's cheeks went red. "Yeah."

"And Scotty busted you."

"Yeah. Zelda did, I guess." He squirmed, still not meeting Lionel's eyes, but he kept talking. "Scotty said … she told us to quit. And we did."

Fusco nodded, mostly to himself. He and the hacker had covered this before she built the computer he'd given Lee for Christmas. Scotty had predicted that the boy would surf into trouble. Actually, she'd said he'd do it at least twice. And she'd promised that she'd let Fusco know if it was anything he needed to worry about.

But since Lee had volunteered, he figured he better say something. He felt his own cheeks get pink. "Okay, look," he began. "You and I have gone over the basics. Of … sex. And it's natural that you're curious. That's normal. Every boy in the history of the world has been curious."

"Even you?" Lee gave him a sidelong look.

Fusco huffed. The kid was a smartass sometimes. He probably had only himself to blame for that. "Yeah. Even me. But I'm not ten." He shook his head. "The thing is, the internet, there's some real sick stuff out there. Stuff that … it gets into your head. It can warp the way you think, you know? About girls, about sex, about … you're ten. You don't need to be looking at that stuff. When you're older, you'll have a little better idea …" He waved his hand helplessly. His own father would have told him, _do it in private and wash your hands afterward_. This wasn't the right time for that advice. He hoped. "Just right now, just … don't. Okay?"

The boy nodded. "Yeah."

He had the feeling he was still failing the parenting test. Limits, his ex would have said. _Set some damn limits, Lionel._ "You do it again and I find out about it, I'm taking your computer away for a week. Maybe a month, depending on what it is." He shook his head again. "And if your mom finds out about it, she's going to take your computer away forever. And probably kill me."

"I know."

"Alright, look." Fusco put his hand on his son's shoulder. The boy finally looked up at him. "If Scotty didn't tell me about it, it must not have been that bad. I'm not mad at you. Just don't do it again, okay?"

"Okay." And then, "Sorry, Dad."

"It's okay." Lionel looked around for Scotty again. She was about five minutes overdue now.

"Where'd she go?" Lee asked.

"I dunno." She might have ditched them. He thumbed at his phone, then put it away. If he didn't hear from her by the end of the second period, he'd try to track her down.

They both sat back to watch the puck drop.

"Lee, listen," Fusco said, when the noise subsided. "If you, um, down the road, if you get into a jam of some kind, you need somebody to talk to, an adult, you can talk to Scotty, okay? I mean, if it's something you don't think you can bring to me or your mom."

The boy looked at him quizzically. "Like what?"

"I don't know." Fusco shrugged. _Like if your dad ends up dead and everybody's telling you what a scumball he was_. "Stuff comes up, you know, when you're older. I dunno. You can always talk to me, okay? I mean, I might yell at you first, but then we'll work it out, right? But if you … I don't know. If I'm not around or something and you need someone to talk to, someone to help you … Scotty's good people. And she's smart. She'll help you. Okay?"

Lee nodded, worried. "Okay."

He looked like he was going to ask more questions, but then Scotty came back. She had a cardboard tray in one hand, loaded with soft pretzels. In the other she had a big plastic bag from the team shop.

She was wearing a Bruins jersey. It was generic, no number, no player name — all you could get here in Ranger territory.

"What'd you buy?" Fusco asked nervously.

Scotty handed the bag to Lee. He dove in, and came up with a jersey of his own. And one for Fusco. And a third one. "What's this for?"

"Rhonda."'

"Oh." Lee grinned widely. "Wow, thanks!"

"Hey, uh …" Fusco began, figuring retail prices in his head.

Lee stood up and shrugged into his jersey. The fans behind him grumbled.

Fusco glared at them. Then he stood up, took off his jacket, and put his own jersey on over his shirt, slowly. There was more grumbling and heckling behind them. He ignored them.

They all sat down again, with Christine between them. "You didn't have to do this," he told her. He'd noticed that the price tags were gone. He was probably underestimating the cost. Inside the Garden, two, maybe three times higher than the team shop?

She smiled, ignoring his protest. "Have a pretzel."

"Chrissy …"

"Lionel." She threw a playful elbow at his ribs. "Don't call me Chrissy."

"You're spoiling him. Spoiling both of us."

"Damn right I am."

Lee looked past her to him. He looked, like he thought his dad might make him give it back. And honestly, Lionel thought, he probably ought to. But there didn't seem to be any graceful way to do it. He already knew she could be stubborn has hell.

Besides, she looked happy. And Lee definitely did.

He shook his head. "I don't know what I'm going to do with you."

"You're gonna buy me a beer as soon as that vendor comes back."

"Oh. You, um, you drink?"

Christine smirked at him. "Alcohol was never my problem. In moderation. And you're driving."

Fusco nodded. "Okay."

And then two players crashed the boards right in front of them, and a fight started, and all three of them they were on their feet and yelling.

* * *

Bower's bail was set very high, but he bonded out just before nine. His sister picked him up in front of the precinct. "Hey, Valerie." He twisted to look into the back seat where he niece was. "Hey, Mandy."

The girl smiled broadly at him. Then she looked away without speaking.

Valerie shook her head. "She never smiles at anybody like that."

"She likes me," Bower said. "She's smart."

"Yeah." His sister shot a look at the police station. "What'd you do this time?"

"The usual."

She smirked. She knew perfectly well what the usual was. "Who threw your bail?"

"Friend of mine."

"Takin' you home?"

"Sure."

Before she got to the end of the block, Bower's cell phone rang. He answered it, listened intently, didn't speak much. Then he put his phone away.

"That your bail friend?" Valerie asked carefully.

"Yeah." Bower considered. "Look, um, why don't you just drop me off up here?"

She looked over at him. "You just got out on bail like five minutes ago, and you're gonna go meet this friend and get in more trouble? Damn it, Len …"

"Hey," he said firmly. He glanced back at his niece. "Don't worry about me, okay? I'm helping you out here, right? Mandy likes her new school, right?"

Valerie's eyes narrowed. "What's that got to do with whatever you're doing?"

"Just I know a guy, okay? I do him a solid, he does me a solid, right? Mandy gets into that school you wanted. Everybody's happy, right?" He twisted around again. "You're happy, right, sweetheart?"

She smiled again, then turned her face away.

"See, she's happy. So don't worry about it." He dug out his wallet, slid out four of the five crisp hundred dollar bills. "Here. You take this, buy some groceries or whatever, some new clothes. Some junk food. Get Mandy some ice cream."

"Len, I don't want you to …"

"Just pull over right here." His sister wouldn't take the money, so he folded it in half and put it in the cup holder. "Everything's going to be fine, okay? Don't worry about it. I'm gonna take care of you, and Mandy, too."

"You can't take care of us if you go back to prison."

"Val." Bower leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "See you around, sis." He got out of the car.

Valerie watched him walk off. Then she took the bills and tucked them into her shirt pocket. "Mandy," she called over her shoulder, "your Uncle Len is going back to jail."

* * *

Finch listened to the young men as he searched the various databases at his disposal. He had two avenues to explore: whether there was anything he hadn't already learned about Hart Roth, and whether anyone at Day-by-Day was a threat to his brother Dylan. Because personal records were more difficult, he started there.

More precisely, he started with Hart's school records. The young man had been in the New York City public school system for thirteen years, but Harold would have been hard-pressed to say that he'd learned anything. Hart had been moved in and out of different classes for all of him elementary years. He'd been in the special needs class, the standard classes, and the gifted classes. Every move had precipitated behavioral difficulties. His mother had been his strongest and most vocal advocate; there were dozens of letters from her in the boy's records, and also letters from doctors and mental health professionals written at her request.

Mrs. Roth had never believed that her son was incapable of learning, nor that he was incapable of living in the mainstream of society.

From what Finch could see, she'd been right. In his high school years, Hart's difficulties seemed to diminish significantly. There was no record of his participation in any extra-curricular activities — the young man hadn't suddenly become president of student council or head of glee club — but he'd been channeled into standard classes and had done acceptable work.

After his graduation, however, Hart's mother had worked very hard to get her son declared partially disabled. Finch saw immediately that this was to make him eligible for Social Security benefits, and specifically for health insurance. Since he wasn't attending college, he could no longer be carried on his parent's insurance. The mother had been quite diligent, relentless in pushing Hart's case, and in the end she'd been successful.

They'd found Hart a place in a sheltered workshop, custom-designed to train people with mental disabilities. He'd done very well there. He'd specialized in the accounting, and he'd excelled in working with numbers. From his records, he enjoyed it very much.

And then the educational paper trail abruptly ended.

Carter had provided Finch with the police report that took up Hart's story from there. Three days before Christmas, his parents' house had burned down, killing them and one of Hart's brothers. The young man was not badly injured, but he was found catatonic, non-responsive, and he'd remained that way for weeks.

Finch read between the lines of the remaining records. Hart had never recovered completely.

Dylan had done as well as he could by his brother. He'd gotten him classified as fully disabled, enrolled him in Day-by-Day. Given him a home, and made an earnest attempt to see that he was cared for. He'd done the best he could.

Finch, of course, had the resources to do somewhat better.

But first they had to save him and Dylan both.

"Hey, Hart," Dylan said. "Turn that off for a minute, will you?"

Finch looked up toward his left screen. There were four views from cameras in the apartment displayed there. The brothers were in the living room, at opposite ends of the couch.

"But Jeopardy," Hart protested.

"It's a commercial. Here, we'll just mute it."

The television went silent.

"Hart, listen. I want to ask you about something. And I don't want you to get all upset, okay? I'm not going to make you do anything, so don't panic, okay?"

His brother twisted away. "Jeopardy."

"Hart, listen. I talked to Mr. Jackson today. He's going to let you stay at D-b-D next month for free. So that gives me some time to find a job. But he also offered to let you move into the residential program. You could live there."

"Jeopardy."

"Hart …"

Hart stood up and moved into the kitchen, then back. Finch watched him pass from one camera to the next.

"Don't get upset," Dylan urged. "Just tell me what you think."

"I don't wanna."

"You don't want to tell me, or you don't want to live there?"

"Both."

"I'm not going to make you go, Hart. I want you to think about it. It might be better for you. If something happens to me, at least you'd be somewhere safe."

Hart sat back down on the couch, picked up the remote, and unmuted the television.

"Hart."

"Thinking."

The young men went silent.

Finch began to open the letters in Hart's school files. He wasn't surprised to find that every time the young man's IQ had been tested, a different number had been determined. What was rather surprising was the range – between 56 and 155. He supposed that it was entirely determined by how cooperative Hart was feeling that particular day. But 155 was in the highly gifted range. He wondered if that was actually possible.

"I'm scared, Dylan," Hart said very quietly in the next commercial.

"I know. I won't make you go."

"It might … be better."

"I don't know."

They went silent again.

Harold felt deeply for both of them. They were trying. Making the best decisions they could. But they were not equipped with experience or knowledge. They were in a position they'd never expected to be in, faced with choices they should never have been expected to make.

They were so very young.

_When this is over,_ Finch decided, _I will find a way to help them._


	9. Chapter 9

**1981**

John wasn't even sure how the topic came up. They'd been playing basketball, but the afternoon sun was too hot to keep it up. They took turns at the park's drinking fountain, where the water tasted like hose water, and then flopped into the grass beneath a big tree. Tony said, "You remember that gimpy kid from first grade?"

He resisted the urge to punch him in the mouth. Tony was okay these days, most of the time. He was just kind of an ass because his father was. "Johnny," he said. "He moved away."

"He died."

"What?"

"He died."

John rolled over to look at him. "No, he didn't. He moved away."

"Yeah. But the year after that he died. I saw his headstone up at the cemetery. Last week, at my grandpa's funeral."

John glared at him. "You're making that up."

"Nope. The gimp is dead."

"Stop calling him that." He sat up.

"Oh, come on. He's dead now. You don't have to stick up for the gimp anymore."

"Stop it!"

"Oh, whatever."

John rolled to his feet.

"Where you going?"

"Gotta go home," John said. "I told my mom I'd clean my room before dinner."

"Sure. Wuss."

The boy shook his head, picked up his basketball, and walked home.

His room was already clean. He'd cleaned it before he went out to play. But he didn't want to punch Tony in the mouth again — he'd gotten into a lot of trouble the last time — and he knew if he stayed he would. It was just better to walk away.

Besides, he wanted to ask his mom about Johnny.

* * *

**2013**

Hart went to bed at his usual time, keeping to his routine. Dylan, however, stayed up. Finch kept an eye on him, glancing at the monitor occasionally, but the young man didn't do anything very interesting. He watched some TV, paced the living room, looked in the refrigerator. Then he checked in on his brother. He seemed restless. Finch couldn't blame him.

Just before eleven, Dylan got his coat and his keys. While he checked on Hart one more time, Finch keyed his comm. "Mr. Reese," he said softly.

"What's up, Finch?" By his voice, Finch could tell that the op was wide awake, though he knew he'd been sleeping an instant before.

"Dylan's leaving the apartment."

Reese grunted. "I see him." There was quiet movement; the car door opened and closed. Footsteps and traffic noise. There was something distinctly comforting about the familiarity of listening to his partner move through the night.

He hoped Dylan wasn't about to do something profoundly foolish. He knew Reese was hoping the same thing.

"He's going into the bodega at the end of the block," Reese told him.

"Midnight snack?" Finch suggested, relieved.

John didn't answer. There was other sound, quiet, secretive. It took Finch a moment to pick it out as separate from Reese's background noise. He looked toward the apartment monitor, but there were no lights on in the bedroom. He looked back to his research on Day-by-Day.

And then there was movement. Finch looked up again. Hart Roth, fully dressed, walked across the living room quickly and went out the front door.

"Mr. Reese," Finch said urgently, "Hart is leaving the apartment."

"What?"

"Hart is …"

"I heard you. Where's he going?"

Finch shook his head. "I have no idea. He may be eloping."

"What?"

"Autistic children who are upset sometimes run away from home. Even autistic children who _aren't _upset may have a tendency to wander."

Reese made a little noise of frustration. "I can't watch both of them, Finch."

"Follow Hart," Harold directed immediately. "He doesn't have a phone. I'll send an anonymous text to Dylan and tell him where you're going."

"But Dylan's the one in danger," Reese countered.

Finch was silent for a moment. Reese was right. He stood up, got his coat and his laptop. Bear bounced to his feet hopefully. "Yes, yes," he murmured, getting his leash.

"Hart is more vulnerable," Reese continued, mostly to himself. "Finch. I need you out here."

"I'm already on my way," he answered at once. He clipped the leash on the dog and hurried out.

* * *

The young man seemed to know where he was going. Or else, Reese thought, he was simply heading toward the lighted skyline to be going somewhere, anywhere, in a hurry. He followed him with extra caution; if Hart saw him again, John knew he would panic.

Hart moved competently through pedestrian traffic and across streets. He kept his head down and his hands in his pockets and squeezed to the far side of the sidewalk to avoid even incidental contact with anyone. He did not speak. He just moved.

"Finch," Reese reported to his comm, "we're headed toward the river."

"I sent a text to Dylan," Finch answered, "but I believe his phone is still in the apartment."

There was keyboard clicking in the background. Reese frowned. "Finch, you aren't texting and driving, are you?"

"I'm stopped at a light," the genius answered. "And no, but I'm still monitoring the apartment on my laptop."

"I don't have time for you to crash, Finch."

"I appreciate your concern, Mr. Reese."

Reese closed the distance on the young man a little. If Hart got in trouble, he was going to have to intervene. It would be bad, all around. He desperately hoped that Dylan would catch up to them before that happened. But Dylan would be on foot and his brother had a head start. He needed Hart to stop somewhere. Or at least slow down.

Hart Roth didn't show any signs of doing either. He kept walking with single-minded determination.

Reese continued to trot after him.

* * *

Finch watched — while driving, despite Reese's warning —as Dylan returned to the apartment. The young man put his six-pack of beer in the refrigerator, tore one loose from the plastic rings and opened it. He noticed his phone peeping and picked it up. Then he swore, slammed down his beer, and hurried to the bedroom. A second later he was back in the living room, looking around frantically.

Harold slid his car into a red zone and put it in park so he could send another text to the young man. He watched on the laptop as Dylan hurried out of the apartment. "Still heading for open water, Mr. Reese?" he asked.

"Almost there." Reese sounded impatient, a little winded. "What are the statistics on autistic children and suicide?"

"Inconclusive, but generally believed to be high," Finch answered. "But more importantly, accidental drownings are significantly higher among that population."

"Wonderful."

"You'll need to stay close."

Reese said something that sounded like a curse in another language.

Finch closed the laptop and slid it over. Bear immediately climbed into the front seat with him. He patted his ears quickly, then put the car back into gear and slid away from the curb.

* * *

**1981**

"Mama?" John asked, after dinner. "Is Johnny really dead?"

His mother looked up at him. "What?"

"Remember Johnny, from first grade? The boy in the wheelchair? Tony said he died."

She nodded slowly. "I heard that, yes. A couple years ago."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't hear until several months after it happened, Johnny. I didn't … you're right, I should have told you. I just didn't want to upset you."

John sat down at the other end of the couch. "Why did he die? I mean, what did he die of?"

"He had a lot of congenital problems. That means he was born with them. They always knew he wasn't going to live very long." She considered. "They were lucky he lived as long as he did."

John didn't agree with her, exactly, but he didn't have the words to argue. "Can I ride my bike up tomorrow and see his grave?"

His mother shook his head. "It's way too far, Johnny. And there aren't any sidewalks on that road."

He looked away, disappointed.

"But if you want, I'll drive you out there on Saturday after I get the groceries. How would that be?"

John nodded, grateful. "Thank you, Mama."

She stood up and kissed him on her way past.

* * *

**2013**

Hart stopped at the edge of the river. Reese couldn't tell if the river had been his destination or if he was simply stymied by the body of water that prevented him going any further. In any case, the boy paced along the railing between the park and the water, sat on a bench, stood up and paced some more, but he didn't cross the rail or jump into the river.

The water wasn't frozen solid, but it had a thin slushy film on it. John knew it was brutally cold. It was about eight feet down from the railing into the river, with a very steep muddy bank between them.

He was concerned about Dylan. Finch had told him that the young man was on his way. He was alone, unprotected. There was nothing Reese could do about that but hope for the best. He could call Fusco or Carter, but neither of them would get there in time to be any help. Finch should be there soon. And then — Reese didn't know what they were going to do then.

Dylan entered the little park, looked around, and spotted his brother. "Hart!" he yelled. He trotted toward him. From the way he moved, Reese guessed that he'd been running since he left the apartment. He didn't have much left in the tank.

Hart looked toward him. He didn't seem to know whether to move toward him or away from him. He shifted from foot to foot, but stayed where he was.

"Damn it, Hart," Dylan said, grabbing his arm. "What are you doing?"

"You left."

"I went down to the corner to get some beer. C'mon, Hart, I was gone like five minutes. Where did you think you were going?"

"Just going."

"Mr. Reese?" Finch said in Reese's ear.

"Dylan's here, with his brother."

"Good. I'm nearly there."

Reese retreated further into the shadows. It was important that neither of the brothers see him now.

Dylan said, "Hart, you can't just go. Where would you go?"

"Go. Just go."

Dylan ran his hand over his face. "You know what, Hart? This isn't helping. I know you can talk. I know you're smarter than I am. But the minute you hear something you don't like, you just shut down. You won't talk to me, you won't try to work things out. You just shut down and run."

"What. I. Do."

"I know it's what you do." Dylan shook his head. "I know, Hart. But we can't do this anymore. If I can't trust you not to run off every time I leave you alone for five minutes … then maybe you do need to live at Day-by-Day."

His brother stood very still, looking at the water. "Maybe," he said softly.

"Damn it, Hart! If you don't want to go, then tell me. Argue with me. _Something_."

They both leaned on the railing and looked at the water. Neither spoke.

A car stopped at the edge of the park. Reese looked toward it, expecting Finch, but it was the wrong make and model. It idled for a minute, and then there was a squeal of tires and it was on the grass, speeding toward the brothers.

Reese shouted and broke cover, ran toward them, but he knew he couldn't outrun the car.

Dylan shouted, too. He yelled, "Run!" at his brother, shoved him one way, and ran the other. The car turned to go after him.

Roth knew he wasn't going to outrun the car. He took the only logical escape route: He jumped over the rail. Reese heard him splash into the water. The car skidded to a stop just short of the railing. The driver jumped out and ran to the railing. He aimed a gun toward the water.

Reese shot him, twice. No kneecaps for an attempted murderer; both bullets hit center of mass. The man dropped, motionless.

John pulled his coat off before he reached the railing. He tied the sleeves together around an upright support of the rail, then jumped over it, slid down the coat, released it, slipped down the steep bank, and landed in the water.

The cold was so intense that his whole body went rigid.

He didn't take time to adjust. He looked for Dylan. The lights from the park were lost here in the shadow of the bank, but he could hear him, splashing. He moved toward the sound. The bottom disappeared from under his feet and he swam, clumsy breast stroke, keeping his head up so he could hear.

The boy was moving out from the bank, probably in the current. Reese got a good fix on his location, put his head down and swam six stroke strokes. He bumped into him in the dark.

Dylan scrambled at him, his hands on Reese's shoulders, on his head. He was panicking, and John knew that his fear could kill them both. He caught the young man's shoulder and twisted his upper arm hard, forcing him to turn, caught him around the neck. "Calm down," he said sharply. "I've got you."

Dylan continued to struggle. Reese tightened his grip, ducked a flailing arm. "I've got you," he repeated. "Calm down."

Roth swung at him again. "Take a breath," Reese commanded. Then he dunked him.

When they came up, Dylan stopped struggling.

"Good," Reese said. "Relax." He stroked sideways, towing the young man back to the bank. Dylan actually did relax, some, and it made the swimming easier. But the cold seeped into his muscles, which made it harder.

Over his head, he heard frantic, familiar barking.

Then he heard Finch's voice. "John! John!"

"I'm here," he called back. Dylan struggled half-heartedly, but Reese felt the bottom under his feet again. "Find my coat and call me from there."

There was a very short delay. "Here," Finch shouted clearly. "Come toward my voice." There was a light, too, narrow and yellowish. Leave it to Finch to have a flashlight.

Reese was very nearly even with the light. He moved closer. "Okay," he said, more quietly. "Okay. We're here." He turned toward the bank and pulled Dylan in front of him. "Reach up," he told the boy. "There's a coat there. Grab it and use it to climb up."

Dylan's teeth chattered. "I don't think … I don't think …"

"You can do this. Come on." Reese pushed the young man upward. Dylan scrambled around, all of his weight on John's arms. Then he grabbed onto something and his weight lifted away. "Finch!"

"I've got him," Finch answered. His voice sounded pained, but assured. "I've got him."

"Good." Reese watched as the shadow disappeared into the light above him. He sank under the water, kicked off the bottom as hard as he could, and managed to catch his coat at the hem. "Go find Hart," he instructed as he pulled himself up.

"Hart …" Finch answered. "Bear, _such_!"

The dog barked one more time.

Reese's fingers were so cold they didn't want to grip the coat. He gritted his teeth, forced himself to climb. He pulled himself over the railing. Dylan was sprawled on his back in the grass, shivering, panting. Half-conscious, Reese guessed. But he was alive.

He turned and tried to untie his coat sleeves. He couldn't do it. The knot had been pulled tight by their weight, and his hands were too stiff and frozen to close. He reached into his ankle sheath, pulled out a knife, and slashed one sleeve off. Staggering, clumsy, he sat Dylan up and wrapped the coat around him. "Here," he said. "Here."

"Hart …"

"We'll find him." He looked toward where Finch and Bear had gone. He shivered violently. So did Dylan. "We've got to get to the car," he said. He stood up, pulled the young man to his feet. "Come on."

"Hart," Dylan said again, pulling back.

"Come on."

The young man didn't want to go. Reese barely had enough strength to pull him. They were both becoming too cold to think.

Finch came out of the trees, walking sideways, watching behind him. Bear followed, gently herding Hart toward them. When he saw his brother, Hart ran to him. Bear followed the young man closely.

Finch helped Reese guided them both to the car. He put the brothers into the back seat. Bear nuzzled at John's hand, clearly wanting to join them. Hart didn't object, so Reese gestured him in. When he shut the door, Finch was there, holding a blanket open for him.

John let his partner wrap the blanket around his shoulders. It smelled faintly musty, like the trunk of a car. It didn't do much to cut through the cold. But it was something. Finch opened the door for him, and Reese dropped into the front seat.

Finch went around to the driver's seat, started the car, and put the heater on full blast. "Safe house?" he asked.

"Closest one," Reese agreed.

He looked over his shoulder. Dylan was shivering violently. Bear was pressed against him, instinctively trying to warm him up or at least comfort him. Hart was against the far door, looking at the floor. He looked like he was shivering, too.

He glanced out the window. Beside the other car, the gunman was still motionless. Reese was sure he was dead. He got a look at the man's face as Finch drove away.

He was the same man who'd tried to mug Dylan Roth earlier.

Reese looked over at Finch. His partner glanced back, then shifted his eyes toward the back seat. Reese nodded. It would have to wait.

Despite the luxury-class heater blasting at him, he continued to shiver.


	10. Chapter 10

The safe house, like all of his safe houses, was discrete and secure. Finch parked the car in back and hurried to unlock the door for them. Reese was still dead white and shivering, but he gestured for them to wait and went in first, with Bear. The brothers followed, with Hart trying to warm his brother and cling to him at the same time.

John unclipped the dog's leash. When Bear trotted in happily, calmly, Finch could see his partner relax. "Finch," he said, gesturing to Dylan, "find him some dry clothes. Something loose, if possible."

"Right away." He hurried into the front bedroom. The dresser was stocked, of course. He opened the bottom drawer and brought out work-out clothes, a t-shirt and sweat pants. From the top drawer he took underwear and socks. They were Reese-sized, a bit big for Dylan, but that was alright. He went back to the hallway.

"Dylan, come with me," Reese said. He hustled the young man into the first bathroom. "Get your wet clothes off, take a towel, and get as dry as you can. Don't rub your fingers and toes, no matter how cold they are. Just dry." He took the clothes from Finch and put them on the counter. "Then get these on and come on out."

"Can't I shower?" The boy's voice trembled.

"Not right now. We need to get you warmed up first." He closed the door behind him.

Reese paused, breathing heavily.

"Same orders for you, Mr. Reese," Harold said. He took his arm and led him toward the bedroom. He could feel the cold of the skin beneath his hand even through the blanket he'd draped around him. "There's another bathroom in here," he said, gesturing.

Reese started to argue. His teeth chattered, ruining his delivery. "Hart …"

"I'll look after him. What clothes do you want?"

Reese looked past him to the closet. "Got a suit?" he asked hopefully.

"Of course. But I'm not sure you should go back out …"

"I'll be fine, Finch." Reese went into the bathroom and closed the door. Finch pulled a suit from the closet, a clean shirt and shoes, then got more underthings from the drawer. He laid them out on the bed. Then he went to the hidden compartment beside the dresser and retrieved a slightly worn-looking wallet that contained a complete replacement identity for his partner. He put it beside the jacket, left the bedroom and closed the door behind him.

Hart was sitting on the floor in the hallway just outside the bathroom door. Bear was right beside him, and the young man had his arm around the dog.

"You're safe here," Finch said clearly. "No one can get to you or your brother, and nothing can harm you. Understand, Hart?"

The young man wouldn't look at him.

For one moment, Hart reminded him very much of Christine. No, of DaisyB, years ago, hiding her eyes from him in an empty pizza shop. But this young man was not a drug addict in withdraw. And he had not hacked Finch's network. Still, there was something ….

"I think we could all use something hot to drink," Finch said. He moved slowly to the kitchen, so that he didn't alarm the boy, then rinsed out a kettle, filled it and put it on to boil. Cocoa would have been better, but there was no fresh milk in the house. He found some tea, set out cups. Then he moved back to the living room and started a fire in the gas fireplace.

Reese came out of the bedroom first. He was still pale, but he'd mostly stopped shivering and looked almost like himself in his suit again. He was carrying his shoes. His hair was still damp, and his ever-present cowlick rebelled against the rough combing it had received. He knocked on the bathroom door. "Dylan?"

"Almost done."

Hart huddled his knees against his chest, but did not move.

"Mr. Reese," Finch beckoned. It was an indicator of how cold his partner still was that he joined him without protest. Reese spread his fingers in the warmth of the fire. "I'm making tea," Harold said. He caught John's wrist and examined his fingertips.

"It's fine, Finch."

"Hmmm." Unconvinced, he studied Reese's nose and then the tips of his ears. "And your toes?"

"They'll warm up. At least I have dry shoes." He took a long deep breath, glanced toward Hart, then leaned closer, spoke softly. "The guy at the park was the same one who tried to rob Dylan at the park."

"So perhaps it would be instructive to learn who posted his bail," Finch answered.

"Yes."

Dylan came out of the bathroom. He was still very pale as well, still shaking. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Here, come sit here," Harold said quickly. He went into the bedroom and got a big fleecy robe out of the closet. When he returned, Dylan was sitting on the couch, his feet outstretched, and Reese was checking his extremities. Hart had moved into the doorway.

"I don't like the toes," Reese reported. "Can you get some cool water?"

"Right away." Finch handed him the robe, moved to the kitchen. He poured the now-boiling water to steep the tea, then found a basin under the sink and filled it with cool water. It was heavy, and he was very aware of how his limp made the water it slosh as he carried it back to the living room. But he did not spill it.

Reese took it from him, put it on the floor in front of Dylan. "Soak," he commanded.

The young man dipped his toes in. "It's cold," he complained.

"We'll warm it up," Finch promised. "Slowly."

The boy trembled violently again. He pulled up the legs of the sweat pants and put his feet in the basin. "Who are you?" he asked.

"I'm John," Reese said simply. "This is Harold."

"Yes, but …"

Hart came into the living room, sat down against the wall. Bear continued to stay at his side. Harold went past him into the bathroom again and brought out two more fresh towels. He put one down beside the basin for the young man's feet and draped the other one over his damp hair.

"Your life is in danger," Reese continued. "But we're going to protect you."

"You're safe here," Finch added. "And you'll remain here until we're determined the source of the threat and eliminated it."

"I … but … you were at the park."

"Yes. And I was in your apartment. You didn't see me, but Hart did."

Dylan looked at his brother, startled. "You … what?"

"We need you to think." Reese dropped onto the couch next to him. He leaned toward the fire, probably unconsciously. "Is there anyone who would have any reason to want you dead?"

"What?"

"An old co-worker. A neighbor with a grudge. Someone you owe money to. An ex-girlfriend."

The young man shook his head. "No. I mean … no. Nobody." He sighed. "I'm not that important to anybody. To want to kill me? I mean, how do you even know?"

"No one at all that you can think of?"

He paused to reflect, then shook his head. "I really don't know. Like I said, I can't think of anyone I matter that much to." He looked toward his brother. "It's alright, Hart."

Hart buried his face in Bear's fur. Dylan started to get up, but Reese put his hand on his shoulder. "He's fine."

Dylan sat back. "I can't believe this. I can't …"

Harold hurried to the kitchen, stirred much too much sugar in the young man's tea, and brought it back to him. "Drink this. It will help." He steadied the cup while Dylan took a few sips. "You and Hart are safe here. I'll stay here with you until we resolve this issue. No one is going to harm you."

"Hart won't … he won't sleep in a strange place."

"Bear will help," Reese answered. "And you'll be here with him."

Dylan sighed heavily. "I can't … I don't even …"

"You've had quite an eventful night," Finch said soothingly. "Drink your tea. Warm up. Then you can have a nice hot shower. You'll feel better soon, I promise."

The young man looked at him, frightened, beseeching. Then he seemed to accept the situation. He collapsed back against the couch.

Reese gestured with his head and Finch followed him into the kitchen again. He pressed a cup of tea, only lightly sweetened, into his partner's hands. "I'm fine," Reese protested.

"You're still half-frozen. Drink."

John sipped the tea. "I'll call Carter, find out who threw Bower's bail."

Finch nodded, reached into his pocket and gave him a cell phone. "I'm sure your other one didn't survive the swim."

"Probably not. I know my coat didn't."

"Front closet."

Reese grinned ruefully. "You always have a back-up, don't you, Finch?"

"I try to anticipate all contingencies, yes." He glanced toward the living room. "And speaking of back-up — I don't think I'll be able to get much research done while the two of them are awake."

"So we need back-up on the keyboard."

"Yes."

John nodded. "I'll round up our girl. I need to swing by the library anyhow and find a dry weapon. And then I'll go back to the apartment and see if anyone shows up there."

"You think they'll continue to pursue Dylan."

"I'm sure of it. The first time in the park, that might have been just to scare him. But this second time, they wanted him dead."

"And the young man has no idea why."

"Keep him awake for a couple hours," Reese instructed. "Make sure his core temp is normal before you let him take a shower. Then put him to bed. I'll bring some clean clothes by for him when I get a chance."

Finch nodded. "Are you sure you should go back out, Mr. Reese? I'm quite certain your own core temperature is not back to normal yet either."

"I'll be fine, Finch. But thanks for worrying about me."

"Worrying about you, Mr. Reese, seems to be a major part of my job description these days."

* * *

Reese stopped at the door and surveyed the bar with an operative's eye, assessing. It was a sports bar, with a TV hanging from the ceiling every ten feet. It was crowded and loud. But the patrons were mainly mid-thirties and up, and a decent percentage of them were either too old or too soft to give him much trouble.

He wasn't looking for trouble; he didn't really have time tonight, and his brief dip in the river had worn him out. His hands were still cold, and his feet were half numb.

There was a knot of men at the back of the bar, though, that were _very_ fit. There were a dozen of them, all drinking beer, not a hard drink in sight. That meant they were more likely to be fighting sober. And they were solid, square. Muscular, but they could move. They could be a problem.

There were half a dozen women with them. And naturally, Christine Fitzgerald was one of them.

Instead of Donnelly's sweatshirt, she was wearing an oversized hockey jersey. A Bruins jersey, oddly enough. It was covered with autographs. Reese wasn't sure that was an improvement.

She was leaning against a man, and he was leaning against the wall, with his hands around her waist and his face against her neck. He started at her ear and nibbled downward toward her collarbone. She squirmed, but she didn't try to escape. Then she turned her head and caught his lips to hers.

He knew he shouldn't waste the time, but Reese brought out his phone and dialed it anyhow. "What?" Fusco barked.

"The next time I ask you to take Christine out," John answered darkly, "you'd better not end the night by putting her into bed with a third-string hockey player."

There was a moment of confused silence on the other end of the call. "What?" And then, "Look, you asked me to take her out, I took her out. And I took her back home. If Chrissy decided to go back out and be a puck bunny tonight, it's none of my business. And frankly, it's none of yours."

"Lionel …" Reese began warningly.

"Uh-uh," Fusco snapped. "You said she was acting strange. But she seems fine to me. You ask me, _you're_ the one who's acting strange. And I get it. The whole prison thing, the bomb vest, I get it. But Chrissy's got nothing to do with that. So unless you're looking to stake a claim on her, you need to back off and leave her alone."

John Reese opened his mouth and then closed it. He moved the phone away from his head so he could glare at it. But no words would come out of his rage. He tried one more time, then snapped the phone shut as hard as he could.

He looked at the group again, then took a deep breath and summoned his best fake front. He buttoned his overcoat all the way to the top, mussed his hair, consciously slouched. It was the best he could do on the fly. He waded timidly, uncertainly through the crowd to Christine and her new boyfriend.

"Hey, Scotty?" he said, his head lowered, his voice pitched intentionally high and softened with a vague southern drawl. "Hey, Scotty, honey?"

She opened her eyes and looked at him, not happily.

The man lifted his lips and glared. "You mind, pal? We're busy here."

"I'm sorry." Reese kept his eyes soft and sincere. "I'm really sorry. I know it's your night out, honey, and I'm not supposed to get in the way, but I just can't get the baby to sleep."

"Baby?" the man repeated. He straightened a little, putting a handbreadth of space between himself and Christine.

Reese kept his face down, remorseful. "I put the gin in his bottle just like you told me, but I can't get him to sleep no matter what."

"Gin?" Christine sighed heavily. "I told you to give him _vodka_. Gin gives him gas. You'll never get him to sleep that way."

"You give your baby gin?" the man asked. He shifted again; now there were six inches of space between them and his hands dropped off her waist.

Reese was mostly glad it worked. The guy was younger than him, not bigger but probably harder. And his friends were paying close attention. Most nights he would have welcomed the fight. A big part of him would have welcomed it tonight. But his body had had enough abuse, and he might need it for something more important later, like protecting the Roth brothers. He looked down, shamefaced, trying to fight the grin. "I'm sorry. I thought gin would work."

Christine shook her head. "You drank all the vodka, didn't you?" She turned to the man she'd been kissing. "I got to go get my brat to bed. I could come back in a while, if you'll be here."

John brightened. "Or you could come with us, if you want. We got a big bed, California king …"

The man backed away. "Yeah, no. Listen, you're, um … yeah. Good night." He turned and strode to the men's room.

Reese took the woman's arm and led her toward the front door. None of the men's friends tried to stop them. "This better be good," she grumbled darkly. "You smell like the river."

"I went for a swim," he snarled back. "I thought you only chased men in uniform."

"Hockey players wear uniforms. And did you see the thighs on that guy?"

Reese held the front door open for her. "I did, actually. They were terrifying."

"I thought they were magnificent."

"You would."

"What the hell do you want?"

He handed her an ear piece, opened the passenger side door of the car for her. "We regret the necessity of interrupting your … date," Finch said, as soon as she had the earpiece in. "But we required your assistance at the library."

"Fine," she snapped.

Reese started the car and turned the heater up full-blast again. "See? I wasn't breaking up your date just for the fun of it."

"Not that you wouldn't, though."

John didn't bother to deny it. They'd both know he was lying.

Half-way back to the library she sniffed the hot air of the car and asked, "Did you really fall in the river?"

Reese glanced over at her. She wasn't done being mad at him. But he knew she'd turn her attitude on a dime if he needed her to. He didn't need her to. "I jumped."

"Are you alright?"

"Fine."

"Good." She cracked her window open and leaned sideways to get some fresh air.

* * *

Finch added a little warm water to the basin where Dylan's feet soaked. The young man was motionless, drowsing, but his color was better. Harold brought a cup of tea for Hart and left it on the coffee table. He also set out a plate of Girl Scout cookies he'd taken from the freezer. He got the remote from the side drawer and turned on the TV over the fire place, with the volume low. Then he got his own tea, retreated to the far side of the room and opened his laptop.

It took several minutes, but Hart finally moved from the floor and sat on the couch next to his brother. He picked up the remote and changed the channel to cartoons. Bear moved over with him, lay down at his feet.

"It's okay, Hart," Dylan murmured. "I'm right here. I think we're okay."

Hart sat close to his brother, but Finch noted that the boy was watching him. Any time he looked up, Hart looked away, but from the corner of his eye he could see the boy studying him.

"What are you looking for?" Dylan asked.

"Information about the man or men who tried to hurt you," Finch answered.

The young man sighed. "I wish I could help. I really can't think of anybody."

Hart shifted, whispered to him.

"What's the dog's name?" Dylan relayed for him.

"Bear."

More whispering. "Hart likes him a lot."

Finch nodded. "Bear is very intuitive. He knows good people when he meets them."

It seemed like Hart almost smiled, but he ducked his face away. Bear stood up and pushed his head between the boy's hands, demanding to be petted.

"I always wanted a dog," Dylan said. "When I was a kid. But my parents said it was too much trouble. That I wouldn't be responsible."

It was an off-hand comment, but it grew the in silence that followed. He couldn't have a dog, Finch surmised, because his parents had been overwhelmed by the needs of the autistic — if that's what he was — son. And now Dylan, who they didn't think would take responsibility for a dog, was responsible for his brother.

"I don't know what would happen to him …" Dylan began. His voice cracked and he stopped. He shivered again, though Finch didn't think it was from cold this time.

He stood up, went to the kitchen, and brought the tea kettle back to splash a little more warm water over the young man's feet. "Feeling better?" he asked. "Have a cookie."

Dylan did. "Thank you," he said. "I don't know why you're doing all of this, but … thank you. I don't know …" He looked toward Hart again. "If something happens to me, will you …"

"Nothing's going to happen to you," Finch said firmly. He sat down across from them. "You were studying accounting," he said, changing the subject. "Why did you stop?"

"After the fire, I couldn't …" Dylan glanced at his brother. "I couldn't work full time and go to school, too. I'll go back, some day."

"Is that where your interest truly lies?" Finch pursued. "Do you have a passion for numbers, or was that simply an expedient way to gain employment?"

The young man frowned at him, as if no one had ever asked that question before. "I like it," he said. "I like sorting things out. Finding where the mistakes were."

"Forensic accounting, then?"

Dylan smiled. "Yeah. I like the mystery."

"I know a forensic accountant," Finch said, "although I don't think he's a very good representative of the profession. How close are you to your degree?"

"Two semesters. Well, maybe three. I kinda flunked out, I think. After the fire I just sorta quit and didn't go back. So I'd probably have to re-take those courses."

"And what sort of company would you like to work with?"

Dylan Roth started talking, hesitantly at first, and then suddenly he opened up. He told Finch about his idea job, about his goals, about what he'd planned for his life before the fire. Once he began talking it was as if he couldn't stop. He'd had no one to talk to, Finch realized, for literally years. No one who was interested in his dreams, even enough to just listen. His life had been consumed with caring for his brother. He acted like a man who hadn't even thought about his own life, beyond the next paycheck, the next rent payment, for a very long time.

He was a young man very much starved for socialization and attention. And though part of Finch itched to be back at him computer, searching through data to locate the threat to the young man's life, it seemed to him that this was important, too. The young man had almost lost his life, twice. He deserved to have someone to talk to.

Finch knew he wasn't good at most human interaction. Certainly he was terrible at sharing anything about himself. But he prompted the boy just often enough, with a question or a comment, and the words tumbled out of him like a waterfall.

Hart did not speak. Harold hadn't expected him to. But he noted that the young man kept looking toward his laptop. It seemed like curiosity at first, and then like desire. Finch wondered what he'd do if he granted him permission to play with it. But that particular laptop was well-loaded with his programs. If his suspicions about Hart were true, turning him loose on that computer could be a grave error.

Still, he was curious. When he went to the kitchen to refill their tea cups, he placed a quick call to Reese.


	11. Chapter 11

If Reese had needed another signal to measure Christine's mood, the books were it. Any other time she'd been to the library, she'd kicked off her shoes before she'd walk over the mass-market books that littered the lobby floor. This time she barely hesitated, then kept her shoes on and walked over them.

Reese followed her up the stairs. Finch had already booted his system remotely; all the screens were lit and waiting. She dropped into his chair, pulled a keyboard to her, and tapped her earpiece. "Okay, go."

He listened absently to the crosstalk between her and Finch; it was all business, at the moment. His partner probably hadn't noticed the lack of pleasantries under her brisk efficiency. Reese left her and found the clean laptop that Finch had requested. It was in a case, with cables and power cords. Typical Finch.

Then Reese found clean, dry weapons and accessories for himself.

When he went back to the main room, Christine was standing in front of the board. "Vernon, Hart, and Dylan," she said, gesturing to the pictures. "God save us from parents with liberal arts degrees."

Reese raised an eyebrow at her.

"Vernon Watkins, Hart Crane, Dylan Thomas," she explained.

He'd guessed at Dylan Thomas. The other two he'd have to look up. From the context, they were likely poets. He didn't know much about poetry, and his lack of knowledge on that subject didn't bother him in the least.

Christine moved down the board and pointed to the picture of Jackson. "I think I know this guy."

Reese looked back. "Jackson?"

"Yes." She frowned, shook her head. "I don't know. Maybe not."

Smokey sauntered down the hall, very much mistress of the library, carrying something small in her mouth. She paused at Bear's bowl and dropped it in, then strolled on, jumped up on the desk, and then into Christine's arms. "Hello, sweetie," the woman said, stroking her.

At least she wasn't mad at the cat.

Reese walked over to the food bowl. The dog food was gone, of course; Bear ate his meals all at once. There were, however, the heads of three mice in it. "Hmmm." He picked up the bowl and showed them to Christine. "Now we know where they're going."

"Gifts for a friend." She sat back at the desk, moved the cat into her lap. "I'm sure they're very tasty."

"Rats are, anyhow."

"If you cook them right."

John grimaced. He'd been kidding, mostly. He was pretty sure Christine was, too. But it was hard to be sure. She'd lived on the street, nearly starved there. Rats were plentiful, fairly easy to catch. Ready protein. She might know that first-hand.

He could suddenly taste the chewy, gamey meat between his teeth.

Reese shook his head. They were now, thankfully, both a long way from a place where a fat rat was a viable meal. It was a small matter if she was mad at him; it would pass.

He grabbed a plastic grocery bag from the pantry and poured the little trophies into it, then replaced the bowl. "I'll drop these on the way out."

"She'll just catch more, you know."

"I'm sure." He weighed the baggie thoughtfully. "Let's, uh, not tell Finch."

"Tell me what, Mr. Reese?" Finch asked over the comm.

"Nothing, Finch." He considered telling his partner that he might not want to let Bear lick his face for a while. But it was probably too late, anyhow. "I'm on my way." To Christine, he asked, "Anything you need?"

She shook her head. She already knew where the library's amenities were. "I'm good."

"Thanks for your help."

"Sure."

John Reese was very, very good at reading people. But he couldn't get a good read on the woman tonight. Like Finch, she didn't give much away when she didn't want to.

Like Finch, she annoyed the hell out of Reese sometimes.

* * *

Detective Carter looked down at the body, expressionless. She already knew who'd killed Len Bower and why, but she was going to have to go through the motions. It was late, and it was very cold out. She was not in a good mood.

"What's his car doing way over here?" she asked the closest uniform.

"Don't know. But there's some marks down here on the bank."

"Marks? What kind of marks?" She followed him over to the railing and took his flashlight.

"Like somebody went into the water," he said.

It was hard to tell, in the dark, but it did look like that. She glanced out over the river. "You sure they got out?"

He shrugged. "Water patrol's coming to take a look, but if somebody went in, we won't find 'em until they float."

Carter looked at him, exasperated. "Your compassion is overwhelming."

"Just being practical, Carter. Somebody went into that water tonight, he's a goner."

She supposed he was right. She moved the light around a little more, looking for clues. At the bottom of the railing, she found a bit of black fabric, torn from something. It was heavy, but when she rolled it between her fingers it was very soft. Cashmere blend, she thought. Had to be John. But she'd spoken to him. If he had gone into the river, he'd gotten himself out.

She straightened up and looked around again. There were muddy footprints, two sets, from the railing to the grass. So John and someone else. Interesting. "No witnesses, I suppose."

"Nope." The uniform gestured. "But this looks like it some kind of gang thing."

"Maybe. He got arrested today, armed robbery. Must have bonded out." She looked at the body again. Two shots, both close to the center of his chest. John Reese didn't drop many bodies these days. Left a lot of bad guys limping, not many dead. She felt reasonably comfortable assuming that he'd had no choice. But it was still messy. She gestured to the shops across the street. "Let's canvas the neighborhood, anyhow."

The beat cop made a little face at her. Then he trudged off.

Carter made a face of her own and followed.

* * *

"Reinhold Lanoux," Christine said over the comm. "His company owns and operates fifty-two health care facilities in 16 states. Five years ago they were charged with eight counts of Medicare fraud. They settled out, paid a hefty fine. Two years ago they paid twenty-eight thousand dollars in back taxes to the IRS. Other than that, the usual collection of patient complaints, nothing very shocking."

Finch did not answer; Reese knew he was probably talking with the boys, but was listening. He tapped his own earpiece. "Finances?"

"They turn a nice profit, according to their investor reports. I'll take a closer look."

Reese wasn't completely convinced that Day-by-Day had anything to do with the attacks on Dylan Roth; they simply didn't have anywhere else to look.

He picked the lock and eased the brothers' apartment. He kept his weapon in his hand while he cleared each room, then put it away. "I'm at the apartment," he reported, to Finch and to Fitzgerald. "No sign of anyone looking for Dylan here. Yet."

He couldn't find any suitcases, so he got some recyclable grocery bags from the kitchen and packed clean clothes for both boys. He knew Finch well enough to know that the safe house would provide any toiletries they needed. As an afterthought, he grabbed Hart's pillow with its colorful cartoon pillowcase. He also took a handful of Hart's scribbled papers off the desk.

"Anything on Bower's phone?" Finch asked, very quietly.

"No record of one," Christine answered. "Probably had a burner."

"Have we heard from Detective Carter?"

"Not yet."

"Keep me posted," Finch said.

"I always do."

Reese left the apartment and stashed the gear in his car. Then he found a secluded spot to watch the building.

Christine's voice came back. "Reinhold is definitely in the for-profit business, and all of his corporations push the tax code limits pretty hard. But from what I can see in a hurry, Day-by-Day isn't any different from any of the other properties. There's nothing special about it, financially." She paused. "They've been churning some properties. Selling off health care facilities and buying more behavioral sites. In additional to D-b-D, they've purchased two other special needs day cares in New York. They're geared for children."

"They can funnel those patients into the adult facility as they age," Reese said.

"They probably don't need to. Autism diagnosis is through the roof in the past decade. They're filling the spaces as fast as they open them. Everybody is. That's probably why the corporation is shifting its focus." Christine made a small noise. "Smokey, quit. Jackson bugs me. I'm going to look at him some more."

Finch didn't answer; he was probably back with the clients. Reese didn't contradict her.

Reese watched the apartment. The wind picked up, and he began to shiver again. He hadn't gotten completely warm from the river, and the night air was seeping his body heat away. He went back to his car and got in. His view of the building wasn't as good, but his hands grew less numb.

Finally his phone rang. "Detective," he said, "what'd you find?"

"I found that you dropped another body for me," she snarled quietly.

"I didn't have a choice."

"I figured. You end up in the river?"

"Yes."

"Everybody get out okay?"

"We did."

She sighed. "Bower's bond was covered by Central Bail. They're contracted through a company called Liquid Lite. They're a beverage supply company, mostly mixers for bars and restaurants. He works for them as a part-time delivery driver. I couldn't get a contact name."

"Liquid Lite," Reese repeated. "They posted bail for a part-time employee?"

"Yeah," Carter answered drily. "I thought that was a little shady, too. But there's no one at their offices right now. I can go ask in the morning."

"I appreciate it."

"Just don't make any more work for me tonight, okay? I need some sleep."

"I'll do my best," John promised. He clicked off the call. "Christine?"

He could already hear the keyboard in the background. "Liquid Lite is owned by Central Distributing," she answered readily. "Who is owned by … Morgan Equities, mostly. Which is a shell company, of course."

"Of course." Reese started the car, turned on the heater. "Can you trace it?"

Finch said, quietly, "We're specifically looking for any link between Morgan and Lanoux."

"Yes, dear," Christine answered absently. "Give me a minute."

"Everything okay, Finch?" Reese asked while they waited.

"So far. Mr. Roth's color is much better, and his toes had regained circulation."

"Good." Reese glanced at the dashboard clock. "Give him another half an hour and then throw him in the shower."

Finch sighed with infinite patience. "Yes, dear."

John pulled his gloves off and held his hands over the heater.

"I'm not seeing an immediate corporate connection," Christine finally said. "But if you want a straight line, Liquid Lite provides beverage service for Day-by-Day."

"So Jackson and Bower might have known each other," Reese mused.

"Jackson's been with Lanoux for seven years," she said. "Started as an assistant administrator in their facility in Georgia, then moved to Florida. He was at the facility that got charged with Medicare fraud, and moved up to administrator after his boss was fired. He came to New York last year, after Lanoux purchased D-b-D."

"And before Lanoux?" he asked.

There was another pause, filled with keyboard. "Personnel records say he attended NYU and Florida State, has a Masters in Hospital Administration."

The woman went silent, even the keyboard. "What is it?" Reese prompted.

"I don't know. I swear I recognize him, but … I'm good with faces. So if I've met him before, it was in the lost years."

As gently as he could, John asked, "Could he have been at Pine Crest while you were there?"

Pine Crest was the rehabilitation facility that Finch had committed Christine to, many years before, against her will.

"No," she answered, with no offense in her voice. "Before that, I think. And there's no record that he ever worked there."

Finch rejoined the conversation. "It seems like a man with a Master's degree is rather underemployed at a facility like Day-by-Day."

"True," she agreed.

"Have a look at his personal finances," Reese suggested. "And Lanoux's."

"I'm on it." And then aside, again, "Smokey, _quit_!"


	12. Chapter 12

**1981**

John looked at the sign in the front window for a long time. His hand clenched in his pocket around the crumpled bills. He knew exactly how many dollars there were — thirteen — and how much in change he had. He hadn't been sure it was enough. But the florist was having a sale.

He went inside and waited quietly until the woman came over. She was quite old, stooped, but sharp-eyed. "Help you, son?"

He licked his lips. "I would like a dozen roses, please." He brought out his crumpled bills and smoothed them.

She nodded. "Red?"

"Yes, please."

She spread a piece of green tissue paper on the counter. "Got a sweetheart, do you?"

John felt his cheeks grow hot. "No, ma'am. They're for my friend."

"Oh." She frowned at him. "Must be a good friend."

"He was, yes, ma'am. He'd dead now."

The old woman paused. "You need flowers for his funeral?"

"No, ma'am. He's been dead for a while. But I just found out about it. My mom's going to drive me out to the cemetery tomorrow." He hesitated at the look on her face. "You put flowers on graves, right?"

"Yes," she said slowly, "but not usually roses."

"Oh." John blinked, confused. "I … what should I take, then?"

The old woman considered. "Not roses," she repeated. "Especially red roses, they're for love. Romance, you know? They'd be for your girlfriend or your wife. For a friend, I'd think carnations, maybe tulips." She made a face. "You live around here, don't you? I've seen you on your bike."

"Up the hill, yes, ma'am."

"I'll make you an arrangement then. You come back in the morning and pick it up."

"Oh." John looked away, then back at her. He smoothed the bills again. It was his own money, from lawn mowing, mostly. His mother probably would have given him money for this, but it wouldn't have been the same. "This is … this is all I have. That's why I thought roses, because your sign said I could get a dozen for ten dollars."

The woman took the bills and counted them slowly. Her fingers were bony and her skin looked just like the tissue paper, but not green. She peeled off ten dollars, slid the remaining three back to him. "Ten dollars is just about right," she said. "Roses are the most expensive thing in the shop, mostly. I'll make you a nice ten dollar arrangement for your friend."

John nodded solemnly. "Red was his favorite color."

"Lots of red, then" she agreed. "You stop back in the morning. It'll be in the cooler. I'll put your name on it."

"It's John," he said.

"John. Good."

"Thank you," the boy said sincerely. "I really appreciate your help."

"In the morning," she repeated.

John went out and got on his bike. He paused to look back. The woman at the counter was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. He wondered if he had made her cry. He didn't know how. He felt bad anyhow.

* * *

**2013**

Reese dropped off clean clothes for the Roth brothers, and the laptop. He also brought some groceries. He and Finch consulted quietly, and then Reese set off to break into Day-by-Day.

Finch set the spare computer up at the far end of the table and booted it. Then he gestured to the boys. "This is for you to share. It will help with your school work and job search, Dylan. And there are a lot of sites that Hart would like to visit, I'm sure."

Dylan had been dozing off again. "We can't …"

"It's old," Finch answered. "It was just sitting around. You should have it."

"But you …" Dylan shook his head. "You've done so much for us already. And I don't even know why."

Finch smiled gently. "Because the world needs people like you, and like your brother." He nodded, as if the matter were settled. "I think you're warm enough now. You should go take a nice hot shower."

"That does sound good," the young man agreed. He looked to his brother. "Will you be okay?"

Hart nodded. His gaze was fixed on the laptop.

Dylan went into the back bedroom and got his own sleep clothes, then moved into the bathroom. Finch stood up. "We have milk now. I think I'll make some cocoa." He went to the kitchen and puttered a bit, loudly. When he peered out, Hart was at the table, eagerly tapping on the computer.

Finch nodded to himself and made more comforting noises with cups and pans. He brought out the pages that Reese had brought and looked them over. They were not scribbles, but numbers. The handwriting was big and sprawling and messy, but the numbers looked almost like lines of code.

He paused and looked closer. Not code. Formulas, maybe. Encryption.

Or maybe they were just gibberish.

He peeked into the living room again.

Hart Roth was actually smiling.

* * *

There were two buildings at Day-by-Day. The back building had lights on in the hallways, but the front, where the day care center was, was dark. Reese made his way to the emergency exit and let himself in.

Jackson's office was in the back corner. It was fairly expensively furnished, with modern minimalistic furniture. Reese instinctively didn't like him. He opened the drawers, but didn't find anything remarkable. There were no files. He moved to the computer and plugged in his flash drive. When it was done, he slipped it into his pocket and moved into the hallway.

"Mr. Reese?" Finch asked softly in his ear.

"Yes, Finch."

"Hart Roth seemed very familiar with computers. I know the boys don't have one in their apartment. Does he have access to one at Day-by-Day?"

Reese moved into one of the front rooms. It was very large and open. There was furniture to one side, chairs and two couches facing a television set. Against the other wall were a dozen little cubbies, desks with small partitions between them, with computers on every desk. "Very possible," he answered. He brought out his penlight and moved along the row. The second desk from the back had a big paper sign that read simply, _Hart_. "Got it," Reese said.

"Are there files on it?"

Reese turned on the computer and waited for it to boot up. It promptly asked for a password. "Password suggestions?" he asked.

"Jackson," Christine said immediately.

He tapped the name into the computer. It accepted it. "Good guess."

"Ego. Easy call."

Reese nodded. When the computer had booted, he slipped the flash drive in again and copied all the files. There were a lot of them. "Anything else, Finch?"

"Not that I can think of."

He shut down the computer, made his way back to the emergency door, and slipped into the night. Back in the car, he slid the flash drive into his tablet. "Sending," he told Christine.

"Take a look at Hart's files first," Finch requested. "See if they're coding or formulas or something of that nature."

There was a bit of silence while the files downloaded. "Got them," the woman finally said. "I … hmmm. It does look like code, but it's either encrypted or it's just gibberish."

"Can you crack it?" Reese asked.

"Maybe, if I was on my own system instead of in a safe little box on Random's."

Finch made a sound that sounded suspiciously like a growl. "Hands up," he ordered softly. After a minute, he added, "There. You have access to all my decryption programs."

"Thank you."

"Don't scrump them."

"I would never. Oh, wait, I just did."

Finch sighed, resigned. "Let me know if you find anything."

"Look for anything suggestive on Jackson's files," Reese requested.

The sound Christine made was undeniably a growl. "You boys want to decide what your priority is, please?"

"Jackson," Reese said swiftly.

After a moment, Finch said, "I concur."

"Thank you," she snapped. The call went dead.

* * *

Finch made the brothers hot chocolate and what they thought of as toasted cheese sandwiches. He did not himself consider the individually wrapped slices of orange goo to be cheese, or even precisely food, but he knew that his partner had studied their eating habits and this was what they preferred. Given the amount of stress they were under, he didn't attempt any changes, particularly for Hart. The young man was already away from home and awake well past his normal bedtime.

Hart froze at computer, hands in his lap and head down, when Finch approached. He put the plate and mug down and moved away. As long as he sat on the couch with Dylan and didn't look in his direction, the young man seemed content. He even ate a bit as he played some colorful game.

"He loves computers," Dylan said. He scarfed his own food down. "We used to have one, but it broke and we couldn't … I never got around to replacing it."

Finch nodded. "He has one at Day-by-Day, I imagine."

"Yes. He talks about doing puzzles on it. He's really good at puzzles. Sudoku and things like that."

"Not crosswords?"

"No. Just numbers, not words."

"Interesting."

"He's really smart," Dylan said. "I mean _really_ smart. But because of the way he is, nobody knows it."

"That must be frustrating for you."

The young man shrugged. "He's just so anxious all the time. I wish he could relax. I wish I could, you know, fix things for him. But there isn't anything to fix, I guess." He shook his head. "He was better, in high school. He went to regular classes and everything. I mean, he was still quiet, but he could manage."

"The fire must have been an enormous setback for him."

Dylan hesitated. "Our mom was so good with him. She knew how to draw him out, how to calm him down. I wonder, if she'd survived, if she would have been able to help him. Get him back to where he was, you know?"

"I'm sure you've done the best you could for him, Dylan."

"It's not really good enough."

"You must miss her terribly," Finch suggested.

"Mom? Yeah. And Dad and Vernon …" He stopped. "But Hart misses them more."

"You shouldn't discount your own grief. You have every right to mourn, too."

The young man looked up. There was a sudden hardness in his eyes, guarded. "I can't. I have to take care of Hart."

Finch nodded. "It's very difficult. When you lose everything you care about and still have to carry on. When all you want to do is …" He stopped himself.

"Yeah," Dylan agreed, as if he'd finished the thought. "Yeah."

"You must be exhausted. You should get some sleep."

Dylan sighed wearily. "I don't know if Hart will sleep here."

"The back bedroom has a bed and a day bed. I thought he'd be more comfortable in the same room with you. And my associate brought Hart's own pillow for him. That may help."

"Thank you." Dylan stood and carried his dishes to the kitchen.

"I'll get those," Finch called after him.

The young man looked suddenly exhausted. "Thank you," he said again. "I don't know what … thank you."

"Get some sleep," Finch advised. "Things will be better in the morning."

Dylan sighed heavily and set about herding his brother to bed.

* * *

"Got something interesting," Christine announced over the comm, without preamble.

"I'm all ears," Reese answered.

"All of Day-by-Day's new residential patients have IQs over 145."

"What does that mean?"

"It means Jackson's stocking his house with profoundly gifted people," Finch said.

"Yeah, I got that part," Reese said. "But why? Are they easier to manage?"

"They're generally harder," Christine answered. "They find more creative ways to get into trouble."

"And to get out of the facility," Finch added.

"But," the woman went on, "Jackson's filed for a grant. He wants to create an atmosphere of camaraderie, he says. Put all the profoundly gifted together and hope they help each other by association."

"The idea does have some merit, I suppose," Finch mused. "And Hart would fit into his desired population."

"So he wants Hart in-house," Reese said. "Why would he kill Dylan to accomplish that? He may still have nothing to do with this."

"Agreed," his partner answered. "I've just put the boys to bed. I'll take a look at these codes of Hart's."

"Sending them now," Christine said. She paused, then added, "If you're back on-line, I'm going to go see if I can find out more about Jackson."

"Where will you go?" Finch asked.

"To talk to an old friend."

"Stay there," Reese said. "I'll come and get you."

"No, I'll be fine."

"Christine …"

"I'll be in touch."

The call went dead again.

Reese glared through the windshield of his car.

"Mr. Reese?" Finch inquired quietly. "Do I need to be concerned about this friction between you and Miss Fitzgerald?"

John hadn't told his partner about the woman wearing Donnelly's sweatshirt. He wasn't sure why, except that it would lead to more questions. Questions that he wasn't happy with the answers to. "We need to worry about Dylan," he answered firmly. "It's been two days, Finch. We need to find out who's after this kid. And Day-by-Day is looking like a dead end."

There was a very brief pause. "The brothers are safe. You should get warmed up and get some sleep."

"I'm going to Liquid Lite, see if I can find anything there about Bower."

Finch sighed. "You know, you are every bit as stubborn as Christine is."

"Don't kid yourself, Finch. I am _much_ more stubborn than Christine is."


	13. Chapter 13

**1981**

There was a different woman behind the counter at the florist shop. She was younger, about his mom's age, and kind of pretty. "I'm John," John announced nervously. "The lady last night, she was going to make me an arrangement."

"Oh, yes." The pretty woman smiled at him. "She told me." She turned to the cooler and came out with a white box that was about two feet wide and five feet long. "Here you go. Are you okay on your bike with this?"

John gawked at her. The bike wasn't a problem; he could put it under his arm, if it wasn't too heavy. But it was way too big for what it was supposed to have in it. "I don't think this is right," he stammered. "I only had ten dollars."

She nodded. "I know."

"But …"

She opened the box. Inside was an absolute explosion of flowers and greens. Most of the flowers were red. Carnations, John saw, and small roses, and peonies. And poppies. And a bunch of flowers he couldn't name. There were other flowers, purple and gold and yellow, that made the reds look redder, somehow. They were all tied with a big red ribbon. It was beautiful. But it was obvious even to the boy that it was worth way more than ten dollars.

"I can't …" he began.

The young woman put the lid on the box and wrapped it shut with white string from the dispenser with quick efficiency. She tied it at the top, the bottom, and the middle. "That should get them home for you."

"But I only …"

She looked at him. "Your friend died. You're using your own money to buy him flowers. And you have very nice manners. All that counts for a lot with Mrs. Winters. An awful lot."

The name on the front of the building said Winters Florist. John hadn't realized, the night before, that he was talking with the owner. He backed away from the counter. "It's too much, I can't …"

"John. Can I tell you a secret?" He moved forward again, but not too close. "Mrs. Winter's grandson died last year. He wasn't much older than you. She wanted to do this, for you and your friend, but it's also for her. It made her feel good to do this. It helped her. Understand?"

He did. He wouldn't have accepted the flowers otherwise, but he understood. "I …will you tell her thank you for me? I mean, really really thank you?"

She smiled, relieved. "Of course."

That wasn't enough, John thought. He would write her a note when he got back from the cemetery. A nice note on his mom's good paper — she'd give him a couple sheets if he asked — in his very best handwriting. He'd do a draft first on notebook paper to make sure he had it right. Ask his mom to look it over for spelling. And he'd bring it back himself, some time when Mrs. Winters was here.

That still wasn't enough, but it was a start.

"Thank you," he said again. He tucked the big box under his arm and went out.

* * *

**2013**

The entire city block was derelict, but it was by no means abandoned. Reese could see people in every shadowy corner. The users and the sellers. The furtive exchanges. The faces turned away. The place reeked of desperation.

Christine Fitzgerald moved through the squalor easily, quietly. Her dark clothes, her quiet voice, her careful undersized gestures made her unobtrusive. She belonged here, or she had once, and the city remembered. She stopped and questioned people occasionally. Her words alarmed no one. The regulars answered her, mostly with head shakes and shrugs. No one here, John knew, cared much about who else was here. But she kept moving and kept asking.

If her arrival didn't disturb the dealers and the junkies, Reese's certainly did. In his black overcoat and shiny shoes, he moved through the brackish squalor like a shark, and the little fish scattered anxiously before him. He hung well back of the woman, but his movement spread like waves ahead of him. It was going to catch up with her in minutes.

Christine stopped for a longer conversation with a skeletal pale man in a grayish coat. Reese dropped into his own shadow and was very still. After a moment, the woman produced something from her pocket. It was small, green, and even from a distance he knew it was cash. She gave it to the skeleton. He turned away, into his private shadow. When he turned back he handed her something similarly small, white.

She put it in her pocket.

Reese straightened, adjusted his coat. He had zip ties in his pocket; if he had to, he could bind her hands. He hoped it wouldn't come to that. But he hadn't expected her to go this far off the edge. He felt sick with disappointment and regret. He didn't doubt for a moment that his actions, the ones that had led to Agent Donnelly's death, had led directly to Christine's actions here tonight.

It was already bad. He could only keep it from getting any worse.

The wave of anxious whispers that ran ahead of him reached the woman and her dealer. They both turned to look in his direction. The skeleton vanished back into the darkness. Christine stood very still for a moment. Then she dropped her pretense of invisibility and strode directly past him and out of the alley.

Reese dropped the pretense that she didn't know he was there and simply followed her.

She leaned against the side of his car and waited for him. When he was close enough, she said, "What are you doing, John?"

Her tone was quiet, flat, just a little challenging. She was past her snapping angry stage. This was deeper. Reese was not impressed. "I'm watching a junkie who's been clean for more than a decade buy heroin in an alley." He held his hand out. "Give it here."

Christine stared at him. "No."

They'd had a moment like this once before, when they first met. It had ended with her taking a swing at him. They'd both known then that her little fist wouldn't actually get through his defenses. They still knew. He kept his hand out and gave her a moment to consider whether she wanted to make him take it from her. "Christine."

She reached into her coat pocket, then put her hand out and dropped something white into his palm. Reese frowned. It was very light. He unfolded the paper without taking his eyes off the woman. It was empty. Just paper, nothing more. He glanced at it. There was an address scrawled on it.

"Is this where we go?" Reese asked. "To get the drugs?"

"To get what I came for," Christine answered coldly.

"Let's go, then."

He moved toward the car, but Christine shook her head. "We can walk."

"All right." He took her arm lightly. Her body practically crackled with resentment, but she didn't pull away.

At the end of the block, she said, "Did you ever drink until you blacked out?"

Reese felt himself bristle, but her tone was unexpectedly conversational. He rewarded her attitude adjustment with an answer. "Once or twice."

"Ever get any of that time back?"

He glanced at her, puzzled.

"I lost three years," Christine explained. "I remember some of it, but there are days, weeks, that are just gone. Except once in a while, something comes to the surface. A little shard of memory shows up, a tiny glimpse. And I almost always wish it hadn't."

She pulled her arm gently out of his grasp, but kept walking beside him. "There's this guy, in my memory. I see his face, and his jacket. It's just plain black, the jacket, wool, but the one button here at the neck, it's been sewn on with dark green thread. It must have fallen off and someone sewed it back on by hand, but with green instead of black."

Reese nodded, though she didn't seem to need any encouragement.

"This man, he's laughing. Everybody's laughing. He has a twenty dollar bill between his fingers, folded, and he's holding it up over his head, like this." She put one arm up, her first two fingers stuck up, the others folded down. "Like this, where I can't reach." She put her arm back down. "Twenty dollars. And I need it. Because my teeth hurt."

"Your teeth?" It bothered him that she was speaking in the present tense, as if she could see everything unfolding in front of her. As if it were happening right now.

As if he would let it happen.

"When I start to come down," she explained readily, "when I need to fix, I grind my teeth. I never know I'm doing it, I'm not aware of it, but my teeth start to hurt. In the back." She rubbed her jaw with both hands, over the joints. "When my teeth hurt, I know I need to fix. Before I crash, before it gets worse. So there's this man, with this twenty dollar bill, and I need it because my teeth hurt. And if I can get that money, I can get right, I can make everything stop again. But he won't give it to me. He's holding it up," again her hand reached up, "and he's laughing at me. And he wants something from me."

Reese knew where the story was going. He wanted to stop her; he didn't want to hear it. But he clenched his own teeth and kept walking.

"I can't remember what he wants," Christine continued, quietly. "This little piece of memory, it's just that moment, isolated. I don't know what he wants. But it doesn't matter. Because my teeth hurt. So whatever he wants, no matter how disgusting or degrading or … painful it is, it doesn't matter. I'll do it. Because I have to have that twenty dollar bill. To make my teeth stop hurting. Because that's all that matters, that next fix. And that's all that will ever matter. Whatever he wants me to do, or whatever he wants to do to me, I'll go along. And I'll do it again tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, as long as he has that twenty dollars. Because that's what it is, when you're an addict. Nothing else matters except the drug. You understand that, right?"

John nodded grimly. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I need you to tell me something." She stopped dead in the center of the sidewalk. When John turned to face her, she looked him squarely in the eye. "What have I done to make you think that I'm fucking _stupid_ enough to go back to that?"

Reese felt his breath catch, as if she had actually managed to hit him, in the gut and hard. He stared at her. She stared right back. Her blue eyes were sharp and angry; for an instant he was sure they could cut right through him. And she was …

_He could see it clearly: Bear kept following the cat, even after she'd warned him off with growls and hisses, until finally she spun around and lashed out, pinking his nose with her claw …_

… right. She was absolutely right.

He dropped his eyes away from hers. He could still feel her gaze burning into him. "You're right," he admitted, very softly. He brushed his hand across his nose to make sure it was not, in fact, bleeding, though she hadn't physically touched him. Then he glanced up. "You're right."

"Damn straight I'm right. What the hell is wrong with you? I tell you I need a little space and next thing I know you're clocking my dates and following me all over the city."

_… perfectly aware that he could bite the little cat in half, but unwilling to do so, Bear took the only step he could that would prevent her from hurting him further: He rolled over on his back, exposing his throat and his belly, placing himself at her mercy …_

John put his hands up in front of his chest, palms out, open. "You're right. I'm way over the line. I apologize. It won't happen again."

His surrender led her to break off her attack. Her glare softened. She sighed, exasperated. "What_ is_ it, John?" she asked, almost gently.

"I don't know," he muttered.

_It's the sweatshirt, _he thought as he spoke._ It's Nicholas Donnelly's damn sweatshirt. The fact that he even owned something as casual as a well-worn sweatshirt. The fact that he'd been someone other than the Fed in the Suit relentlessly chasing the Man in the Suit. That he'd been a real person. That he'd had a girlfriend and sisters and an ex-wife. That he'd had an apartment and a ratty old sweatshirt in his closet or drawer or laundry basket … _

And of course John had known all of those things, but he'd kept them at a safe distance. The Army had taught him that, and the CIA had reinforced it. Enemies were not _people_; they could not be. Because if he remembered that the men he was shooting had mothers and dirty clothes and ex-wives, he might hesitate – and that hesitation could get him or his allies killed.

Agent Donnelly had not been an enemy, precisely. An adversary, certainly. And a good one. John's mission, his work with Finch, had led directly to Donnelly's death. He'd been able to shove that into the background, into the dark corner of his mind marked 'collateral damage'. He had not thought about Donnelly much. He'd been focused on his own survival. And then on making sure his own seemingly inevitable death caused as little damage as possible. And after …

… after, he'd celebrated that he still had his life.

Bad people had died by John's hand. Good people had died as well. A great many people that Reese wasn't sure about had died. Every one of them, good, bad or unknown, had had lives, families, comfortable old sweatshirts. Some variation of those things, anyhow.

And all of those things had ended with him

If he actually let himself consider the results of his destructiveness, he knew he couldn't live with himself.

He wasn't ready yet to think about Nicholas Donnelly as a person. He wasn't that strong. He hadn't come that far out of the darkness. Donnelly had to remain an abstract.

But Christine was real. And Donnelly had been a person to her. She'd considered him a friend, and she mourned his loss. If John couldn't let himself grieve for the dead agent, he couldn't help but to grieve for the woman left behind.

Donnelly had been, despite his flaws, a good man. And if John was honest about it, he knew that the agent might have been good for _her_. He might have helped repair some of the damage Christine's dark childhood had inflicted on her. Given time, he might even have made her happy. But he hadn't had time. And he'd wasted what time he did have chasing the Man in the Suit. If it hadn't been for John, they might have found a way. Donnelly was patient, persistent. He could have worn down her defenses, waited out her resistance. He could have given her a home, a family. A more conventional life. The life she deserved, and would likely now never have.

All those possibilities, remote as they may have been, had vanished the moment Kara Stanton pulled the trigger. All the futures, all the good things that might have come into Christine's life through Nicholas Donnelly, were lost in that instant. It was likely that she didn't even realize they'd existed. But John knew. And in their place, now, she had an old sweatshirt with rolled-up sleeves that made her feel a little less lonely.

There was nothing John could do to fix it. Nothing he could give her that came close to replacing the potential life she'd lost. Nothing except to fall back on his oldest instinct: To protect her. To take care of her. To look after her as Donnelly might have if Stanton had not ended his life.

If John had not led Kara to come after him …

The fact that Christine Fitzgerald needed looking after less than any civilian Reese had ever known, and that she actively resisted and resented it, had not deterred him in the least. It was all he had.

It wasn't what she needed. But it was the only thing he could do.

_And he couldn't tell Christine any of that._

"I don't know," he muttered again. He pulled the scrap of paper out of his pocket and held it out to her. "Here." And though it made him feel physically sick, he added, "Go … do whatever you were doing here."

He half-expected her to snatch the paper and vanish. Instead, Christine studied him for a very long moment. He could see equal parts puzzlement and perception in her eyes; it was as if she were exploring the corners of his brain, looking for the answers he could not give her.

And checking that his capitulation had been genuine.

Whatever answered she found, she breathed out softly and he could see the rest of her anger leave her body. She folded his hand back over the scrap. "You can come with me if you want."

"Where are we going?" He was careful to keep any trace of suspicion out of his voice.

"To find a man who can't forget what I can't remember." She turned and started off.

John exhaled, relieved, grateful, and followed her.

* * *

Finch sat back and stared at the code. It was definitely code, computer code, though he didn't recognize it. Some kind of activation code. It was a bit flowery, unnecessarily complex. A bit amateurish, actually. But it would work, whatever it was.

What he didn't know, he mused, was why Hart Roth had been working on it. Had he been encrypting it, or cracking it? And was it something important, or simply a clever puzzle someone had put in front of the young man to keep him busy?

Reese might be right, he mused. Day-by-Day might have nothing at all to do with the attempts on Dylan Roth's life. But it was the only thing in the young man's life that seemed at all out of the ordinary. John had broken into Liquid Lite and looked around, but there was nothing very suggestive there. Finch didn't know where he was looking next.

He looked at the data Christine had compiled on the new residents. They had all been diagnosed as autistic. All of them were deemed to have near-genius IQ's or higher. All of them were profoundly gifted in mathematics. He wondered if they had anything else in common.

Fortunately, he had all of Mr. Jackson's records to tell him the answer.


	14. Chapter 14

They zig-zagged through the streets, over four blocks and up six, and stopped in front of a faded brick building with wide glass doors. Small dark letters mounted on the wall announced that it was Bethany Hospice – although they actually read 'Ho pice' because the 's' had either fallen off or been stolen.

Beyond the doors was a dim reception area. There was a desk with a very bored-looking young woman behind it. She had her cell phone in both hands and was either playing a game or texting.

Christine rapped on the door and the young woman looked up, scowled, shook her head.

Reese brought out Detective Stills' badge and held it flush against the glass. The young woman scowled again, but she put down her phone and buzzed them in.

Christine glanced at him as he put the badge away, but she didn't ask questions. Reese was glad; the explanation – _I shot him and took his badge, then made Fusco bury him so I could keep him under my thumb_ — wouldn't have made her happy.

"What?" the young woman said.

"We need to see Marco Viso," Christine said.

"You know what time it is?"

Reese glanced at his watch. "Yes."

The woman scowled a third time, and Reese was tempted to tell her her face would get stuck that way if she wasn't careful. "All the patients are asleep."

"He's not," Christine said. "He never sleeps."

"Do you have a … a warrant or whatever?"

"Do I need one?" Reese asked.

"Or do we just need to call your director of nursing and talk to her?" Christine added.

The young woman smirked this time. "Call her if you want. I'm not a nurse, she can't fire me." She looked up and saw the way Christine was looking at her, and she folded like a Vegas gambler. "He's in 1516," she said, gesturing with her head.

"Thank you.

Christine walked down the hall silently. Reese followed, acutely aware of the soft whisper of his shoes on the linoleum. The place was dingy and smelled like a nursing home, and like death. Monitors and machinery muttered and grumbled. All of the patient room doors were open at least part way, and in half of them the televisions were still on, softly adding to the gentle un-silence.

Room 1516 was dark, lit only by the monitors and the TV screen. The head of the bed was half-elevated. The man under the white blanket was very small, thin. His face was nearly skeletal, pale skin sunken over the bones, dark circles under his eyes. He was motionless, except for his eyes. He looked at Reese blankly, unsurprised, unimpressed. But when Christine moved into his view the corners of his mouth twitched up. "Daisy," he said, very quietly.

"Hey, Marco." She moved to the side of the bed and took his hand gently. Most people, Reese thought, most civilian, would have shied away from a person who was so obviously dying. Christine didn't give even the slightest indication of reluctance.

"You got your angel with you," he said. His eyes flickered to where Reese had retreated into the shadows. "You using again?"

She shook her head. "No. He just likes to follow me around sometimes."

"He's pretty."

"He knows."

"I've seen mine," Marco said. "She comes and goes. Told her I wasn't ready yet. Not yet. But soon. She's pretty, too."

"Of course she is."

The IV pump at the side of the bed beeped softly, just once. Viso's hand clenched around a button under his fingertip. The monitor beeped again, and a timer reset to twelve. The man's body relaxed as he floated on the dose of pain killer he'd just administered to himself. Christine waited, not trying to talk to him.

Reese looked out the window. There was nothing there, just a parking lot, ugly lights, ugly fence. He wouldn't want that to be his last view in life, he thought. He didn't know what Marco Viso was dying from, but it was something slow and painful. He wouldn't want to die like this. He doubted he had to worry about it much. His own death might be painful, but it would likely be quick.

Relatively.

"He's patient," Marco said. His speech was slurred a little. "Your angel."

Christine glanced at Reese. "Yes."

"Do you see her?" He lifted his hand just a little, pointed one boney finger. "There. She's there. Pretty."

"I can't see her, Marco. I'm sorry."

He exhaled heavily. "Doesn't matter. Not yet. Not yet."

"Marco, I need to ask you about someone." She brought the picture of Jackson out of her pocket and held it in front of him. "Do you remember this guy? From a long time ago?"

He squinted at it. "Sure. Mind Game guy."

"He had money. He wanted something for it."

"Mmmmm." Viso took a minute to gather his strength. He glanced toward the timer on the IV pump. It told him how soon he could have his next dose, probably of morphine. "You don't remember."

"No."

"LAN parties. We use to have LAN parties. Hack sessions."

"I remember that."

"At that bar, in the basement. We broke in and set up. The Emerald something."

"The Emerald Pearl."

"Yeah." He glanced at the timer again. "One night this guy showed up. Clean. We thought he was a nark. But he was something else. The Mind Game guy."

"What was it?" Christine asked.

"You don't remember."

"I don't remember most of those years, Marco."

"He had these problems, math problems, formulas, encryptions. Computer stuff. He'd put it on the network, give five bucks to the first five people who could solve it. Those five got the next problem. Ten bucks to the first two to solve it. Then a third problem, twenty bucks to the winner."

Christine nodded, but Reese could tell she still wasn't remembering any of it except the money.

"Every weekend, he came," Viso continued. "Every time, you took his money. You were so good at encryptions. Every time." He glanced at the timer again.

"What happened to him?"

"The new boy. Not a hacker, not a good one. Just out of the Air Force, just starting to use. Young. The guy shows up, starts his game. Gets to the last problem, you solve it. And the boy, the boy says, hey, those are launch codes."

Reese straightened.

"Launch codes for what?"

"SCUDs, the boy said. So we hacked the Pentagon, and he was right. They were launch codes."

"And I was de-encrypting them for this guy. What was he doing with them?"

Viso shrugged. "Selling them, probably. We rolled him, took all his money. Kicked him out. And we blacklisted him. Told all the hackers we knew. He tried a couple other places. Then he disappeared." He sighed shakily, obviously in pain again. He clicked the button, but nothing happened; the pump was time-locked so that he could only get the meds every twelve minutes. It prevented him from overdosing.

Christine leaned toward him. "Do you want me to stay with you? I can push the button so you can get some sleep."

"No, Daisy, I'm okay. Kinda like it alone. Don't have to pretend when I'm alone."

"You don't have to pretend with me."

He patted her hand. "You still hack?"

"Of course."

"Do me a solid?"

"Anything you need."

He gestured vaguely toward the IV pump. "I'm not ready to go yet. Not quite yet. But when I am … like to be able to do it on my own time."

She bent and kissed him on the forehead. Then she moved around the bed to the pump.

Reese stirred. "Christine," he said as she reached for the control panel.

"Wait in the hall, John."

"Christine," he said again, more firmly. She looked up. He held the box of disposable gloves out to her.

She made a little face, but she put on the gloves before she touched the controls. It took her only a few minutes to crack the access code and re-program the pump.

John watched her face as she worked. She showed no expression at all. But when she was done, she leaned over Viso again and smiled gently. "Marco? You're set. Press 6-6-6 on this panel and it overrides the timer. Okay?"

He smiled back. "Thanks, Daisy." He looked past her. "My angel's back. She's pretty. So pretty. I'll go with her soon."

Christine's face stayed calm, gentle. "Safe journey, Marco."

The timer ran down to zero. He clicked the button, and his eyes rolled back in relief as the drug hit. Christine kissed him one more time. Then she peeled off the gloves, nodded to Reese, and left the room.

Back in the silent hallway, John took her arm as they walked. "You alright?"

"Jackson was getting tweakers to crack for him way back when. I'd guess his game hasn't changed much now."

Reese nodded to the receptionist, who just stared at him, and led Christine out to the street. He keyed his earpiece. "Finch?"

"I'm here, Mr. Reese. I've found out something very interesting. One of Jackson's new residential clients is a young woman named Toni McHenry. Like Hart, she's been diagnosed as autistic, possibly erroneously, and also like Hart she's a genius. Miss McHenry's only living relative was her mother. She died four months ago in a car accident. Our friend Mr. Jackson got himself appointed Toni's guardian."

"And you think he's trying to do the same with Hart?" Reese asked.

"Perhaps. If McHenry's death wasn't an accident, Dylan may not be his first target."

"I'll ask Fusco to look into it in the morning." Reese looked at Christine. "We think we know what he's up to with the residents." He outlined the Mind Game briefly.

Finch caught on right away. "That would go with what I've found in Hart's computer files. If Jackson's using clients of the day care center to crack codes and then selling them … but he'd need a very specific client."

"And you'll need to find out who that client is."

"Yes." Finch's keyboard began to click rapidly.

Reese tapped his earpiece off and looked at Christine. She was standing very still, looking off into the night. Expressionless. Except that the muscles in her jaw kept tensing and releasing. Now that he knew what to look for, Reese picked up her tell easily. "I'll take you home," he said. "Or back to the library."

She looked at him. Her eyes were calm, piercing. "I think," she said slowly, "I'll take a walk."

John took a deep breath. The last thing he wanted to do was leave her here, in easy walking distance of a place she knew she could buy drugs. Especially not as upset as she was. Especially not when she was already grinding her teeth.

Christine was challenging him. They both knew it.

He weighed his options. He could insist, take her someplace safe, and then — what? Sit on her until he was sure she wouldn't go right back out and score drugs? Admit that he didn't trust her?

She'd stayed clean, all on her own, for more than a decade.

She'd lost one friend, and had just enabled another to end his own life. She'd had a major flashback to her days as a junkie right in front of him.

She'd asked him for space, and John had followed her, broken up a date, and made her relive a dark episode from her past.

It came to this: she needed him to trust her. To _demonstrate_ that he trusted her.

Reluctantly, he released her arm. "Call me if you need me."

Christine nodded. Then she simply walked away.

Reese watched her go. Under the dim yellow streetlamp, her long hair looked blonde. And suddenly he flashed back to a bright airport terminal, to Jessica walking away from him, walking to her eventual death, and all he had to do to save her was to speak, to say three words, but he didn't know and he didn't say them. "Christine!" he called desperately.

She stopped and turned.

John froze, unsure what to say. She needed his trust. And he needed … for her not to die. He couldn't breathe, couldn't explain. "Promise me," he asked softly.

Christine looked at him steadily, calmly. "I promise," she said.

He nodded, grateful, reassured. Christine vanished into the night.

* * *

Finch was intent on his research, but when Bear lifted his head from the floor, he was instantly alert. A moment later he heard noise, just a soft creak. It did not come from the outside. The dog turned his head and looked toward the bedroom. There was another creak, feet on the hardwood floor, and then soft footsteps.

Harold lowered the laptop screen most of the way and turned toward the door.

Hart came to the doorway. He met Finch's eyes for an instant, then dropped his gaze swiftly. But he didn't retreat. Instead, he turned and backed into the living room. His hands came up in front of his chest. He circled, carefully keeping himself angled away from Harold. He was looking at the ceiling.

"Is there something you need, Hart?" Finch asked softly.

The young man flinched at his voice.

Harold stayed in his chair and turned his whole body to watch. Hart circled the room slowly, still gazing intently upward. He paused and studied the fire sprinkler in the ceiling. Then he moved on to the next one.

Finch turned back to his computer and ran a quick search. "The fire suppression system was fully tested and certified on January 26th of this year."

Hart paused again. His shoulders dropped, just a little. His eyes shot to the spare laptop, on the table next to Finch. Then he looked away.

"What happened to your parents must have been horrible for you," Finch continued quietly. "I understand why you're anxious about fire safety. But I do not plan on sleeping tonight, Hart. I will keep watch. And even if I do nod off, Bear will be here, and his senses are far more sensitive than mine or yours. He will alert us if there is any danger of any kind."

The young man stood still, with his back to Finch. His hands finally came down to his sides. Bear stood and walked over to him, nuzzled at his fingers. After a long pause, Hart opened his hand and patted him lightly.

Harold picked up his own laptop and carried it to the couch. He sat down, with his body sideways to the young man. "Hart," he said, still quietly, "I suspect you've been terribly misdiagnosed."

The boy's fingers flexed. He was still another moment. Then he slid around the table, still not looking toward Finch, and tapped on the spare laptop.

The textchat message came up on Finch's monitor.

UNDERDIAGNOSED.

Harold nodded. He resisted the urge to text back, Instead, he spoke, still calmly, quietly. "You're not autistic, are you?"

There was a long pause. Finally, Hart texted back:

MAYBE. BUT NOT ONLY.

I WAS BETTER. FOR A WHILE.

"Until the fire?" Finch guessed.

From the corner of his eye, Finch saw the young man shake his head.

I WAS ALMOST NORMAL. NORMAL ENOUGH.

"The emotional distress must have been a huge setback for you." Harold was careful to keep his voice unemotional. Pity, he knew instinctively, was not what the young man desired or needed.

The young man's fingers flew over the keyboard this time.

wiki/Avoidant_personality_disorder

Finch nodded thoughtfully. Hart had not, he noted, had to consult anything to produce the link. He knew it by heart. "And in your case the disorder is acute, isn't it?"

YES

"There are medications available, therapies," Finch offered.

Again, from the corner of his eye. Finch saw the young man freeze. Then his fingers moved.

I WOULD HAVE TO TALK TO A DOCTOR.

HE WOULD WANT TO TOUCH ME.

Harold nodded. Of course the very idea of sitting in a doctor's office or waiting room was intolerably stressful to the young man. The idea of having a stranger's hands on him, however clinically, was horrifying.

He understood the feeling, much too well.

"Perhaps a doctor could come to see you in your home."

Silence from the other keyboard.

"I'm sure that any reputable physician would require a physical examination before prescribing anything long term for you. But if we could explain the situation, perhaps we could arrange for some mild sedation before the exam. Do you think that's something you could tolerate?"

CAN'T AFFORD

"I have … resources. That's not an issue." Finch hesitated. He didn't want to push the young man too far, too quickly. "You can think about it. There's no need to decide tonight."

Hart tapped on the table top sharply, rapidly. Then his hands returned to the keyboard.

VERY SCARED

BUT I WOULD TRY

FOR DYLAN

TO GIVE HIS LIFE BACK

Finch took a deep breath. "All right. When we've settled the threat to Dylan, I'll get you some help. I promise. But we'll go slowly. Work within your comfort zone. We won't do anything you're not ready to do. Alright?"

YOU ARE LIKE ME.

AREN'T YOU?

"I am very much like you, Hart," Harold agreed, without hesitation. "Very much like you."

BUT YOU FUNCTION.

"Yes. But it is frequently more difficult than most people can imagine."

YOU HELP PEOPLE.

"I try to help people, yes."

I COULD HELP. IF I WAS BETTER.

"Yes," Finch agreed. "You could help people."

I WANT TO HELP. TO HELP DYLAN. AT LEAST TO NOT BE A BURDEN TO HIM.

"Your brother loves you very much."

DOESN'T MEAN I'M NOT A BURDEN.

"When this is over, we'll make sure you both get the help you need."

The young man hesitated again. Finch saw his hand reach out and pat Bear's head again.

THE DOG WILL WATCH FOR FIRE?

"Bear and I will both keep watch," Harold promised. "Try to get some sleep."

Hart closed the computer. He patted the dog again. Finch heard a very soft whisper, barely audible, but Bear's tail thumped on the floor. Harold was pretty sure the words had been, "Good dog."

* * *

It didn't occur to Reese until he was half way to the safe house that Finch might have an opinion about his decision to let Christine wander off into the night alone. More specifically, he realized that Harold would probably disagree with it. Emphatically.

If the girl ended up back on smack, John recognized, there was going to be major blowback.

If she ended up dead …

John shook his head. She wouldn't. He trusted her. _What makes you think I'm stupid enough to go back to that?_ Harold hadn't been there to hear that little speech. It had been John's choice, and he'd made it. If he was wrong, he'd deal with the consequences.

And this, he thought grimly, was what happened when you let assets become friends. Things got complicated.

He went into the safe house. The brothers were asleep. Finch was busy at his computer. Bear was quietly glad to see him. John took the dog out for a quick walk around the block, for both practical and tactical reasons. There was no sign of any danger or surveillance. "Looks clear," he told Finch when they returned. "You should get some sleep."

Harold looked at him over the top of his computer screen. "I appreciate your concern, Mr. Reese, but I assure you this is not my first all-night hack session."

It was his second all-nighter in a row, John corrected him mentally. But he didn't say it. His partner looked tired but alert. Less exhausted than Reese himself was.

"I have a great many things to research tonight," Finch continued

"Jackson," Reese didn't bother to hide the predatory edge in his voice. "I want this guy, Finch."

"As do I, Mr. Reese," Finch assured him. "I'm monitoring all of his accounts. If he withdraws money or purchases plane tickets, anything of that nature, I'll alert you. But men like Jackson, who prey on people that they consider far beneath them, tend to think they're untouchable. Even if he becomes aware of Bower's death, I think we can safely assume he's not going anywhere tonight." He half-turned. "Also, I did not sleep in my car last night. Nor did I rescue a drowning man from a freezing and highly polluted river." Unlike Fitzgerald, Finch was too polite to openly sniff the air in Reese's direction. "Go and shower, and then get some rest."

Reese considered arguing. He had, on occasion, smelled worse. Six days in the sun in Afghanistan. Ten in a one-room shack in the Macedonia. Body odor, his own and his teammates', was a hazard of the trade. But he had to admit, the smell that resulted from his dunking in the East River was unique.

Perhaps more significant than the odor, his skin was starting to itch. Everywhere.

And while he could stay awake for another day or two if it was necessary, a few hours of sleep would probably enhance his effectiveness.

He stripped off his suit in the master bathroom and climbed into the shower. He scrubbed every inch of his body thoroughly with soap. Then he simply leaned against the wall and let the warm water splash over him. The last vestiges of chilliness finally washed away, and the tension eased out of his shoulders and back. They were immediately replaced by sleepiness. He could have fallen asleep right there. Instead, he dragged himself out and dried carefully.

He put on clean underwear, then put his suit pants back on. He laid out his shirt and jacket at the end of the bed, lined up his shoes. He put his gun on the bed between the pillows, his phone on the bedside table. If necessary, he could be dressed, armed, and out the door in under thirty second.

Reese went back to the living room. "Sure you're okay, Harold?"

"Fine, thank you. Would you like a wake-up call?"

Years of training had given Reese the ability to wake at whatever time he pre-determined, and he was sure his partner knew that. He nodded anyhow. "If I'm not moving by six-thirty, send Bear to get me."

Finch nodded.

"Or if you hear from Christine."

Harold looked up. "Mr. Reese?"

John felt his own teeth clench. It usually pleased him to know something that Harold didn't; it was a rare occurrence. This time he had the sense that he ought to tell him everything, starting with Donnelly's sweatshirt. But it felt like a betrayal of the unspoken confidence he was keeping with the woman. Having Harold follow her, even remotely and electronically, seemed like cheating. And he was certain that Finch would do exactly that. "Her friend is dying," he said. He let his tone imply that that was the entire explanation. "Cancer, I think. He's in hospice care."

Finch reached for his phone. "I'll call her …"

"Give her a little space."

He paused, put the phone down slowly. "If you're sure."

"A couple days. Then you can take her out for a beer. Or brandy, or whatever."

Finch smiled tightly. "I understand. Get some sleep, Mr. Reese."

John did.


	15. Chapter 15

He slept for three hours and fifteen minutes. At six-fifteen, as he'd planned, John Reese opened his eyes. He stayed very still for a moment, listening. He'd left the bedroom door open. He could hear one person moving quietly around the apartment. In the kitchen. The rhythm of the steps told him it was Finch, and the pace said that he was not under duress. Soft sounds of cooking. Everything else was quiet. Reese went to the bathroom, shaved, and put on the rest of his clothes. By the time he left the bedroom, he could smell coffee and sausage. He was suddenly, not surprisingly, ravenous.

"Good morning, Mr. Reese." Finch gestured to the table, slid a plate in front of him. "I thought you might be hungry."

There were eggs over easy, sausages, toast triangles with butter and blackberry jam. Finch made another trip and returned with coffee and orange juice. Reese looked at him. "I didn't know you could cook, Finch."

"You only know now that I can cook a simple breakfast," his employer answered serenely.

"I didn't bring any sausage with the groceries yesterday."

"I had a delivery made this morning."

Reese glanced at the clock on the wall. It was barely six-thirty.

"We had to have Lucky Charms," Finch explained deftly. "It's the only think Hart will eat for breakfast."

"Lucky Charms."

"Yes."

"Can I have some?"

Harold looked at him for a long moment. Then he shrugged, went to the kitchen, and returned with a soup bowl full of cereal and a small pitcher of milk.

"Thanks, Finch." John ate quickly, efficiently, tackling the hot food before the cereal. "You got something for me?"

"Several things." He went to the living room and returned with his laptop. "Toni McHenry's mother, the woman who was killed in the car accident? This was the accident." He turned the screen and showed John the newspaper article. There had been a twenty-car pile-up on an icy bridge, seven dead, seventeen injured; Reese remembered hearing about it. "I'll have one of the detectives review the file at a decent hour of the morning," Finch continued, "but unless McHenry was in one of the first cars involved, I'd say that her death truly was an accident."

John nodded, put more toast in his mouth and chewed. He liked blackberry jam best of all; he was sure Harold knew that.

"However," Finch went on, "Jackson obtained guardianship of Toni rather readily, and it's not difficult to surmise that once he saw how easily it could be done …"

"He decided to streamline the process."

"Yes. Although I don't believe he jumped into it all at once. The van that picks Hart up every morning was never more than five minutes late until three months ago. Then it began to be late on a regular basis. There are several factors that might explain that: Construction, a new driver, a new passenger earlier on the route. But none of those things actually occurred. The only thing that did change was that the driver got a raise."

Reese shook his head. "So Jackson puts a word in his ear. Make Dylan late for work a couple days a week until he sends his brother to live here, I'll make it worth your while."

"Exactly."

"The real question, though, is what Jackson wants with Hart."

"And I believe I have the answer." Finch pulled the computer back and switched to another screen. "The assignments that you found on Hart's computer at Day-by-Day, his puzzles, are encrypted computer code, as I thought. I didn't find anything as dramatic as launch codes, thankfully, but there are a number of rather significant fragments, including at least two projects that are currently in development at IFT."

"Industrial espionage."

"Originally. But Hart's most recent assignment …" Finch paused. "The code is familiar. It's very similar to the encryption used by our friends at Decima."

"The virus that Stanton loaded."

"Yes. Not identical, but very similar. Composed with the same protocols, probably by the same operator."

Reese put his fork down. "You think Jackson's working for Decima?"

"If he were, they wouldn't need him to decrypt their code. No, I think whoever is keeping Mr. Jackson employed has somehow stolen this data from Decima. And he's likely trying to crack the encryption and sell the code to the highest bidder."

"But you haven't identified him."

"No." Finch sounded vaguely annoyed. "There is no contact information stored anywhere on Mr. Jackson's work computer. But then, none of the coded assignments are stored there, either."

"He has another computer at home."

"Perhaps. Or some kind of cloud arrangement that I haven't been able to identify yet. But there is another way to get to him."

"Give Jackson the data," Reese guessed, "and follow him to the buyer."

"Precisely."

"I'm not letting Hart get near him again. Or Dylan, either."

"We don't have to," his partner assured him. "I've already called the answering service at the center saying that Hart won't be in today, so they won't send the van. I'll simply send an e-mail from Dylan saying that Hart needs some time to think about the residential program, but that he wanted Mr. Jackson to have his latest puzzle results right away. And attach the file."

"Plus a little something extra, of course."

"Of course."

"You're sure his virus scan won't catch it?"

"Mr. Reese. Please."

"Isn't this the same thing Christine was doing when we first met her?"

Finch smiled tightly. "A more refined execution, but the same basic plan, yes." He shrugged. "She'd scrumped all my decryption software. It's only fair I should scrump her entrapment plans."

"Works for me." Reese poured the milk over his cereal and ate thoughtfully for a moment. He'd forgotten what an odd texture the marshmallows had. Not unpleasant, but unexpected. Not quite like real food. "So Jackson leads us to his buyer. And then what?"

"I suppose we turn him over to the authorities."

John shook his head. "They won't even know what to charge him with."

"Attempted murder, for a start."

"Bower's dead. He has a long criminal history. And there's nothing that ties him to Jackson."

"His niece," Finch said, "is autistic. She was able to jump to the head of the waiting list to be admitted to one of Lanoux facilities for children two months ago."

"It doesn't prove anything."

Finch considered. "Theft of intellectual property is applicable, but it isn't quite what we're looking for."

"None of the other residents' family members have gone missing?"

"No."

They looked at each other across the table. It was not the first time they'd encountered this particular problem. What they knew about Jackson, and what they could prove, and what was subject to prosecution, were widely different.

_In the old days_, Reese thought, _I would have just capped him and been done with it._ But these days, as Finch had pointed out once, they strove for a higher moral ground. Which was all well and good, as long as it didn't mean that Jackson would be free to continue to prey on the handicapped and the drug addicted.

Jackson hadn't killed anyone, directly. He had, however, undoubtedly sold stolen information that had put lives at risk.

"What about," Reese said slowly, "something covered by the public safety exemption?"

"Something from the Patriot Act collection," Finch agreed. "Perhaps something of interest to the Secret Service."

"You have something like that?"

Harold brought out his phone and hit speaker, than a speed-dial number. It rang six times before Christine Fitzgerald grumbled, "What?"

"I need a hundred lines of the cascade," Finch said.

There was a very long pause. Then she said, "No."

Reese was genuinely startled: After the first few minutes of their first meeting, he'd never known Christine to tell Finch no about anything. But the genius seemed unsurprised.

Of course, Finch had the advantage of knowing what the 'cascade' was, and he didn't. Perhaps it wasn't at all surprising that she wouldn't give it up after all. He leaned toward the phone. "We need it to get Jackson."

She hesitated again. Finally she sighed. "Fifty lines. Go buy a clean burner phone and call me."

"I can send Mr. Reese to …" Finch began.

"No e-mails, no meets. I'm not at home, anyhow."

"Where are you?" Reese asked.

There was another pause. This one was followed by an exasperated sigh and then by background noises – a dozen muted television sets, real voices, and the endless unsyncopated beep of machines.

"Hospice?" Finch mouthed.

Reese nodded.

"I'll call in a few minutes," Harold said aloud.

"M'kay." The call went dead.

Finch picked up the phone slowly and put it in his pocket. "Mr. Reese, should you ever feel the need, you should know that I have a small but very tasteful assortment of jewelry at the library. You are welcome to any part of it."

Harold had presented Christine with a diamond-encrusted flash drive from Tiffany's just before Christmas, by way of an apology. John nodded. "Thanks, Finch, but I don't usually wear much jewelry."

His employer huffed softly.

Reese wanted to tell himself that it wasn't like Finch to get involved in his personal life. But he knew that was just a comfortable delusion; his employer and partner knew exactly everything about him — almost — and he meddled on a regular basis. "We're not fighting," John assured him. "And I haven't done anything I need to apologize for."

Finch raised a skeptical eyebrow. The he pursed his lips a bit and accepted that answer, though he clearly didn't believe it. "For future reference then."

"I'll keep it in mind."

"Despite her initial resistance, Miss Fitzgerald does seem to be susceptible to diamonds."

_She's susceptible to diamonds from __you_, Reese thought. _From me, perhaps something in a nice chrome-finish .32 caliber would be better. Assuming she didn't just turn it around and shoot me with it. _He rubbed his nose, remembering Smokey, remembering Christine the night before. John could tell by her voice that she wasn't angry at him. He would have known how to deal with her if she'd been angry. Kara Stanton had been angry about half the time they worked together; he'd had plenty of practice. But Christine wasn't the kind that could stay mad, diamonds or not.

Christine was in pain. John was helpless to fix it. And he wasn't good at being helpless.

He changed the subject. "Don't suppose you want to tell me what this cascade thing is."

"It's not my secret to tell, I'm afraid."

That was new; generally Finch just didn't answer such questions at all. "Go get your code," Reese said. "I'll watch the boys."

Finch nodded, called and leashed the dog, and hurried out.

* * *

The Roth brothers were still asleep when Finch came back. He sat down at the computer and began to compose.

Reese cleared his breakfast dishes and checked the perimeter of the safe house. At eight, he called Fusco. "What?" the detective barked. "You want to chew my ass some more, you got to let me have some coffee first."

"I _apologize_," Reese said clearly, looking at Harold over the top of the screen, "if I was less than cordial last night. Would a gift from Tiffany's assuage your feelings?"

Harold smirked at him and returned his attention to the screen.

"Would it what now?"

John smiled tightly to himself and relented. "Never mind. You're right, Lionel. I was out of line. Thank you for your assistance."

After a beat, the detective said, "Huh."

He expected further harassment, Reese knew, and on another day he'd be right. Today he simply changed the subject. "We need you to look up an accident report for us," he said. "Nichole McHenry."

"Yeah, yeah, hold on."

Reese heard movement in the back bedroom, some low voices. He caught Finch's eye and nodded his head that way. Harold nodded his understanding, but kept on typing.

"Oh," Fusco said eventually, "that mess. What about it?"

"Is there any possibility that Mrs. McHenry's involvement was anything but accidental?"

There was a pause of respectable length while the detective reviewed the first few pages of the case file. "Off the top of my head, I'd say no. I'm looking at drawing and it looks like her car was the sixth one into the pile. She hit the stopped cars, and then a bunch of other cars hit her from behind."

"So she wasn't the preliminary cause of the accident?"

"No. The bridge iced over, nobody could stop. What, you think someone did this on purpose?"

"Probably not," Reese said. "But take a longer look when you get a chance. Let me know if you see anything that stands out about her."

"Sure, sure. Can I get my coffee now?"

"Yes, Lionel, get your coffee now." Reese pocketed his phone. "Nothing," he told Finch.

"As expected."

The Roth brothers came out of the bedroom. Hart glanced quickly at the two men, then ducked into the bathroom. Dylan came into the room fully. He looked sleepy and befuddled.

Finch stood. "Good morning," he said. "How are you feeling this morning?"

The young man blinked, ran his hand through his hair, which only made it more rumpled. "Better, thanks. I guess. I still don't … who are you guys?"

"That's still not important," John said.

"Do you think … I mean, when can we go home?"

"Hopefully by the end of the day," Harold said. "In the meantime, if there's anything you need, just let us know."

The boy looked around. "This place is great, but … Hart, he needs his routines, he needs … damn it, I have to call the shop …"

"It's taken care of," Finch assured him. "Would you like some coffee?"

"That would be great." Dylan shook his head. "Hart won't eat anything but …"

"Lucky Charms," Harold completed for him. He got coffee and brought it to the young man.

"That's a little scary. That's a lot of scary, actually."

"I promise you, we mean you no harm."

Dylan sat down at the table, sipped his coffee, ran his hand through his hair again. "The guy last night, by the river. He really wanted to kill me."

"Yes," Reese said. He sat down across from the young man.

"Why? I haven't done anything to anybody, I swear."

"We know," Finch said. He refilled Reese's coffee cup and set it in front of him.

"Then why?"

Finch and Reese exchanged a look. Reese barely nodded. "We believe," Finch explained, "that Philip Jackson wants you out of the way so that he can be named Hart's guardian and move him into the residential facility at Day-by-Day."

"But why?" Dylan shook his head. "We don't have any money. Hart gets disability, but that's it. What's Jackson want?"

"He's using Hart, and people like him, to solve puzzles."

"Yeah, Hart likes puzzles. Number puzzles."

"The puzzles are actually encrypted data."

The young man stared at him. "I don't get it."

"Jackson is getting stolen data from tech companies," Reese supplied. "It's encoded or encrypted. He's getting Hart and the others to crack them for him. Then he's selling the data."

"Hart's …" Dylan stopped and thought about it. Reese saw the pieces click into place for him. "So if I had just agreed to send Hart to live there the first time Jackson brought it up …"

The bathroom door opened and Hart stepped into the hallway. He kept his head down, his body angled away from them, but he came into the corner of the room. Bear went over and sat beside him.

"We should call the police," Dylan said. "I mean, right? We should call the police? He tried to kill me."

"He hired someone to kill you," Reese pointed out, "and that man is dead."

"So they won't believe me?" He thought again. "My word against Jackson's. Some unemployed kid against …"

"But you're not alone," Finch countered quickly. "We're here. And we're taking steps to insure that Mr. Jackson never harms anyone again."

Dylan's eyes shot to Reese. The young man hadn't seen John shoot Bower, but he had to know that's what had happened. "Should I even ask?"

"We're going to frame him," Reese answered simply.

"Oh." He didn't object. He seemed relieved. "Oh. So what should I do?"

Finch smiled brightly and turned the laptop to him. "You should log into your personal e-mail for me. And then you should have some breakfast."

Dylan did as he was asked. Finch took the computer back and began to compose the e-mail. Reese knew that the genius could have hacked the e-mail account easily, but he'd allowed Dylan to think he was marginally useful. For a man who claimed to be back at human interaction, Finch was a natural.

* * *

Secret Service Agent Regina Vickers moved quickly across the squad room to Detective Carter's desk. "You got here fast," Carter said, standing up. She'd called the agent from her car, at Finch's request; she'd barely been in long enough to get her coat off.

"Your information was solid the last time," Vickers answered. "That gets you special attention."

Carter stood up and led her into the interview room. "I don't know if this is as good as that tip," she said honestly, "but it's from the same source. Says this guy is selling classified intel." She handed the agent a flash drive.

"Did you look at it?"

"I don't have classified clearance any more," Carter reminded her. Then she shrugged. "I looked. But out of context, I don't have any way to know if it's genuine or not. It could be junk."

"But your source has been solid before."

"This particular source is always solid. That's why I thought I'd better get it to you."

"I don't suppose you want to share your source's name."

"No."

Vickers nodded thoughtfully and dropped the drive into her pocket. "Thank you for your assistance, Detective."

"You'll let me know, right? If it's anything?"

"I will. Thank you."

Carter drifted back to her desk, watched the agent leave the room. She caught Fusco's eye and quirked him a little smile. "I would love to be a fly on her wall in a few minutes."

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't be surprised if there was _some_ kind of bug on her wall, anyhow," Lionel answered. "Maybe if you asked our friend with the glasses, he'd let you listen in."

She actually thought about it for a moment. "No. I'm pretty sure I don't want to know this time."

"You're learning, Carter."

* * *

"No reply yet?" Reese asked from the kitchen.

"Not yet." Finch was typing something, as always, but John could see at least four open tiles on the laptop's screen. Jackson had opened Dylan's e-mail over an hour ago and had, as they'd expected, sent out an e-mail from his second computer. He probably thought it was secure; he was unaware that Finch had accessed Day-by-Day's wifi network and could watch everything he did. His contact, however, had not responded to his message. "Everything is in place," Finch assured him.

Reese put away the last of the breakfast dishes. His partner, he noted, was still typing rapidly. "If everything's set, why are you still working?"

"Secondary projects," Finch answered absently.

John went and looked over his shoulder. "On Craig's List? That's so unlike you, Harold."

"Actually," Finch said, "it's quite a useful site for the exchange of goods and information, if you know how to navigate it safely. And anonymously, of course." He finished the message he was composing and hit 'send'. "And in this case, it offers exactly what I was looking for." He lifted his hands and turned the laptop partially towards Reese.

Surprised, John sat down and read the ad. He looked at his partner. "You think Bear needs a permanent playmate?"

Finch shook his head and gestured toward the living room. Hart Roth was sitting on the floor in front of the couch, watching cartoons, with Bear's head in his lap. Except for when the young man had been asleep, the dog had not left his side.

"I don't think their apartment allows dogs," Reese said quietly.

Finch shot him a look. "I am aware of that issue, Mr. Reese."

"You might be over-doing this a little, Harold."

"Dylan Roth is twenty-four years old, and he will spend the rest of his life caring for his brother. Hart is a genius who's trapped inside his own mind because he cannot bear more than the briefest touch of human interaction. I cannot effectively ameliorate either of those issues. But I do have it within my means to ease some of the external pressures on their lives. And I fully intend to do so."

Reese looked at him for a moment. Harold's mouth was small, tight, and his eyes were fixed on his screen. But his shoulders were too rigid; his posture gave away his apprehension. He thought John was going to argue with him. He was preparing to defend his position.

Instead, John looked at the picture on the screen more closely. "She looks like a nice dog."

Only the shoulder gave away Finch's relief. "First things first," he said. "But when we've dealt with Mr. Jackson, I think this might work out."

John nodded. It was easy to forget sometimes what a genuinely thoughtful person his partner was. Easy to take the clean clothes and fresh-cooked breakfast for granted, much less the apartment, the limitless credit cards, the job that gave his life meaning. Easy because Harold simply provided them in a quiet, unannounced way. Like a cat, leaving small gifts in his food bowl for him to find later.

_Bespoke suits are not the same as mouse heads_, Reese though wryly. Harold would be horrified at the notion. But he liked the analogy anyhow.

* * *

Avery Fornaris quickly forwarded the e-mail and the attachment. Then he picked up his phone and called his boss. "That contractor I told you about? His people cracked the sample."

"Already?"

"Apparently. I sent it over. Is it any good?"

There was a pause while the man opened the attachment. Then there was a low whistle. "Well. This is — unexpected. The encryption was supposed to be unbreakable."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I'm sending you a link. Download the file onto a drive and give it to him. If your man can crack it, we'll need to do something about upgrading the encryption."

"He'll want to know what it pays."

"Tell him ten million."

Fornaris blinked. "Ten millions dollars?" he repeated carefully. "Do we even have that kind of budget?"

"We have unlimited budget," his boss said. "But we're not going to pay him, anyhow." There was another pause. "Get a good location on this contractor of yours. If his people really can crack this, we need to know. And then they'll need to be dealt with."

"Oh." Despite the years he'd worked with this man, it took Fornaris a minute to catch on. By dealt with, he meant, dealt with. "Understood."

"Keep me posted."

Fornaris put down his phone and checked his e-mail. While the file loaded, he shot a message to Jackson.

* * *

"There," Finch said. He closed the Craig's List tile and fully opened a trace of the wifi. "There's the contact."

"Can you trace it?"

"It's from a throw-away e-mail," Finch said, checking. "But it doesn't matter." He smiled tightly. "He wants to meet. And Jackson's just agreed to a location."

Reese read the address over his shoulder. Then he pulled out his phone and called Carter.


	16. Chapter 16

The Secret Service agent answered Carter's call after the first ring. She sounded breathless, excited, within the restrictions of her tight-laced job. "Detective. I was just going to call you."

Carter grinned to herself. "So the information's worthwhile, then?"

"Oh, yes. Oh, yes." For Vickers, she was practically gushing. "I don't suppose your source gave you any names to go with the data."

"No. But I did just hear from him, and apparently the principals behind the data thefts are planning to meet at noon."

"Today?"

"That's what he says."

"Does he know where?"

She gave her the address. The Secret Service agent thanked her rapidly and ended the call. Carter called Reese back. "They're on their way," she reported.

"Thanks, Carter."

"Hey, you're making me look good for a change."

"You never need any help with that."

Carter rolled her eyes. "I was thinking I might go for a drive, maybe take a look."

"Detective, you read my mind."

* * *

As Avery Fornaris retrieved his car keys from his desk drawer, the screen of his computer went bright blue. It was suddenly covered with nonsensical gibberish in white letters. He paused, frowned at it, reached for his keyboard. The screen cleared.

Out of an abundance of caution rather than any real concern, he rebooted the computer. It restarted normally. Fornaris started a deep virus scan running, just in case, got his coat and left the office.

* * *

In the safe house, Harold Finch sat back from his computer, smiling tightly in satisfaction. He didn't know where his little virus would end up; it would take several hours for it to worm into the systems it breeched. And perhaps whoever was on the receiving end would have the right protection to stop it. But he doubted it. Viruses were not his first passion, but he was very good at creating them.

He might never know where the virus went. But if, as he suspected, Jackson's buyer was connected with one or more major respectable companies, he'd pick up the chatter in the backchannels of the IT world. He'd keep his ear to the ground, and ask Christine to do the same; she was somewhat more connected to the technical gossip circuit.

He wondered again what had happened between her and Reese. Despite John's denial, there had been notable friction between them the night before, far beyond anything warranted by the interruption of her casual date. (The hockey player in question had not, despite Reese's comment, been a third-string player; he was a starter.) Harold's instinct was to get all the information and then take whatever corrective actions might be necessary. But it would need to wait until Jackson was under arrest, and until he'd settled the Roth brothers. And by then it might have blown over anyhow. He hoped so. He needed to be extremely careful about meddling in their relationship. Their friendship was solid, but if he hoped to coax it into something more, he needed to absolutely certain neither of them became aware of his coaxing.

Finch shook his head. One project at a time, he told himself firmly. And right now Hart and Dylan Roth were at the head of the line.

* * *

Carter surveyed the little park from the fifth floor of the parking structure. The bad guys weren't there yet, apparently. But the Secret Service was. At first glance she counted seven agents within two blocks. They were all trying to look like they weren't agents.

"Damn," Fusco said, "who'd you give them, Dillinger's ghost?"

"I didn't think he was _this_ important," Carter admitted. She made one more agent on the ground, and one that she mentally tagged as a probable. She leaned her elbows on the railing and sipped coffee from a paper cup. "This is kinda nice."

"You mean being up here just watching, instead of on the ground cleaning up after Mr. Wonderful?" Fusco asked. "Yeah. It is." He drank his own coffee. "He seem weird to you lately?"

"Weird how?"

"Wound too tight. All the time. Dark and menacing."

"Isn't he always?"

Fusco shrugged. "When I first met him he gave me nightmares. But he was better for a while. Lighter, you know? But lately …" He shook his head. "I dunno."

"I think the psycho partner and the bomb vest might have something to do with that," Carter answered.

"Yeah, I guess." He drained his coffee cup, crushed it in his hand, but held on to it. "You doin' okay?"

Carter frowned, looking down at the park. If it had been her arrest and she'd had unlimited manpower, she would have put someone on the high ground. She scanned the rooftops around the perimeter. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Huh."

She glanced at her partner. "I've had some rough nights."

"I bet." He looked out over the park, too. "Look, I know we're not exactly tight, but if you need anything, somebody to call in the middle of the night, whatever, you got my number, right?"

"I appreciate that, Fusco." She smiled, uncertain. "And … up in that hallway, what you said to get me out of there … thank you."

He looked a little flushed. "No big deal. I got a kid of my own, remember?"

That, Carter knew, was as much of a sentimental moment as they were going to have. "How's Lee doing, anyhow?"

"Ehhh. Growing up. Too fast." He shook his head. "I got him that computer for Christmas, remember? Scotty already busted him looking at porn."

Carter grinned sympathetically. "Boys are gonna do that. Didn't you?"

"Yeah," Fusco admitted. "But it was just Playboys and stuff. Standard stuff, you know? I didn't have this internet thing then. The stuff that's out there now …"

"And now he knows somebody's looking over his shoulder."

"Yeah. That helps."

They watched the park a while longer. "There," Carter said.

"What?"

She pointed subtly to the rooftop on the opposite side of the park. "Figured they'd have a sniper."

"Who _is_ this guy?" Fusco repeated.

"He's a guy who preys on drug addicts and autistic kids," Reese said behind them.

Carter jumped a little. Fusco jumped more.

"So why's the Secret Service care?" Fusco demanded.

Reese shrugged. "We might have led them to believe there were national security secrets involved."

"You had me lie to my Secret Service contact?" Carter demanded.

"No," he answered easily. "They'll find the secrets. They already have, given the size of their turn-out."

"You framed him."

He shrugged again. "You didn't bring me any coffee?"

Fusco handed him his crushed empty cup.

Reese turned, aimed, and tossed it in a smooth arch into the trash can twenty feet away. Then he leaned on the railing between them. "Here we go," he said, pointing.

Jackson entered the park and looked around. Carter saw Vickers spot him; she murmured toward her wrist. The other agents stayed loose, but the detective saw the subtle mic and weapons checks. Their target didn't notice. He stopped next to a bench under a bare oak tree, put his hands in his coat pockets, and looked around.

A tall, black-haired man entered the park from the other side and walked directly to Jackson. They shook hands, spoke quietly. The dark-haired man handed Jackson something small; Jackson turned it in his hand, dropped it into his pocket.

Vickers brought her wrist to her mouth and spoke. Everyone moved.

A shot was fired, and then another one.

Jackson and the other man both fell.

"Damn it!" Carter said, drawing her own weapon. Fusco did the same. But they were much too far from the park to be of any use.

The sniper on the opposite roof raised his weapon and fired once, in Carter's direction but higher, at the roof of the parking structure they were watching from. "Stairs," Carter barked. The three of them ran to the staircase and started up.

At the door at the top, she stopped, eased the door open, checked the space. She looked past Fusco to Reese. "You can't be here," she said clearly.

He stared at her. His eyes were hard, his mouth tight.

"John."

"She's right," Fusco said. "Secret Service is going to be all over this place in about a minute. You need to go."

"I didn't know," John said softly, directly to Carter.

She nodded. "We'll find out who he is. Or was."

"Be careful."

"Yeah," Fusco said dryly, "thanks."

Carter went out onto the roof. She cleared her badge, assuming that the sniper would still be watching. Fusco did the same. They eased around the edge of the cooling unit. Then they both relaxed.

The hired killer on the roof was dead.

Carter waved her arms to the Secret Service sniper, then at the team below. She glanced back at the doorway; the door was just closing.

She sighed heavily. "So much for not cleaning up after him," she grumbled.

Fusco nodded. "Can't even say I'm surprised."

* * *

"Avery Fornaris was the man who was paying Phillip Jackson," Finch said later, in the library. "The sniper's name was Ryan Ricks. He was a Marine. Dishonorably discharged in 2010. Since then he's worked for a number of what are generously referred to as private security firms."

"Mercenary," Reese responded.

"Yes."

"And his last employer?"

Finch's face grew more serious than usual. "As it turns out, they had the same employer, Fornaris and the sniper who killed him. A shell corporation, of course. Inside a shell, inside a shell. But ultimately?" He shifted to look at Reese. "They worked for Decima."

"Decima had Fornaris killed."

"And Jackson," Finch added. "Presumably to prevent them from revealing what they knew to the Secret Service. Or Homeland Security, or whoever else might have been interested."

"Which would be pretty much everybody," Reese said. "But why was Decima trying to crack their own encryption?"

"For the same reason Denton Weeks attempted to hack the Machine while it was in development. In part to try to seize control of it, of course, but mainly to test the security measures that were in place. An ongoing security audit of sorts."

"They want to make sure that no one outside can disable it."

"Yes."

"Why didn't they wait to see if Jackson's people _could_ crack it, then?

Finch frowned. "I suppose Decima identified the virus I uploaded into the sample data," he finally said. "They must have realized that both Jackson and Fornaris were compromised."

"So they eliminated them both." Reese nodded thoughtfully. "Are you sure it doesn't put the residents at Day-by-Day in danger?"

"The real data was in Fornaris' pocket when he died. It never got back to the center; no one there ever got a look at it. And my virus has markers that suggest that it was planted by the government. That the sample had been intercepted and altered. Possibly that Jackson attempted to entrap them."

"So they think the government provided the decrypted sample, not any of Jackson's people."

"Exactly."

"Good work, Finch."

The genius nodded. "Two men are dead. I'm not particularly proud of that."

"You work with scorpions, Finch, sooner or later you're gonna get bit. These guys knew that. They made their choice."

"I suppose."

"I'm surprised that Decima was willing to let the government get their hands on the real virus."

"The government already had it. They were able to isolate the code Stanton introduced to their servers within hours of the upload. But it's so well encrypted that they're unable to disable it."

"And you still haven't been able to crack it?"

"I'm trying," Finch said. "I'm making some progress. But so far, no."

Reese was quiet for a moment. "Could Hart crack it?" he asked gravely.

"That had occurred to me," Finch agreed, quietly, seriously. "But the danger it might place him in …" He shook his head. "I can't, John. I can't risk endangering his life. What you said about Jackson and Fornaris making their choice, that's true. But Hart? He's fully capable of understanding, but I couldn't explain the danger to him without revealing the existence of the Machine. And that, as you know, is unacceptable. I simply can't."

John stood up. "Good," he said simply. He thought about it, nodded again. "Good."

* * *

Joss Carter parked down the block and walked up to Chaos. The sun was down, but it had stayed unseasonably warm; half of the tables outside the cybercafé were occupied.

Christine Fitzgerald was sitting alone at one of them, with a bottle of beer in one hand and a book in the other. "Hey, Joss," she said, putting the book down.

"Taylor still here?" the detective asked. Her son and his girlfriend had taken the bus down earlier to watch _The Princess Bride_ with their friends at the café. She'd told them she'd drive them home when she got off work. Taylor was tall for his age, but slender, and Tia was small; Carter didn't like the idea of them on a city bus alone late at night.

Fitzgerald twisted around and glanced through the window behind her. "Last sword fight. Probably ten minutes left." She gestured to the seat beside her. "You want some coffee? Or a beer?"

"No, I'm good, thanks." The detective sat down. "And you don't have a liquor license."

"What, are you channeling Ellis now?" Christine asked lightly.

Carter felt familiar guilt knife through her. She'd left Nicholas Donnelly in the wreckage of the SUV with two bullets in him. Left the crime scene. Left him alone. It was the most unprofessional thing she'd ever done.

She hadn't had a choice. And he'd been dead. But that didn't make any easier. She couldn't forget.

When she was sure her voice would be steady, she said, "His name was Nicholas. Why do you call him Ellis?"

Christine shrugged. "That's how he introduced himself. The second time, when he didn't have his badge in his hand." She took a long drink. "It was his middle name. The one his grandfather picked for him. And it was the name he always used socially."

"That's kind of strange."

"Names have power," the woman mused lightly. "Nicholas was his father's name. And Dad, as far as I can tell, was an abusive bastard."

Carter looked over at her, startled. "Donnelly told you that?"

"Of course not. But I guessed the first time I heard him go off on 'the law is the law'. Anyone you meet who's that determined to impose order on the world, you can bet they're coming from some kind of chaos. And in these parts, that generally means an abusive home."

"So why don't _you_ try to impose order?" Carter asked. She gestured with her head toward the café.

"Chaos reigns down here," Christine admitted. "But upstairs? The condiments in my refrigerator door are currently arranged by expiration date. At other times they have been arranged by size, color, and of course alphabetically."

"Ahh. So it takes one to know one?"

"True dat." She took another swig of beer. "Anyhow, I had guessed, but I picked up the details at the funeral. Amazing what people will say in front of you when they have no idea who you are."

Carter blinked. "You went to Donnelly's funeral?"

"Uh-huh. And I helped his sisters pack up his apartment."

"I didn't think you two were that close."

Christine shrugged. "Theresa didn't want to go alone."

"His girlfriend," Carter remembered. "I met her at the theater. She seemed nice."

"Yeah. I introduced them. Oh, and his ex was there, too."

The detective wished she'd taken the beer. Or something stronger. "So you and Donnelly's girlfriend, and his ex-wife, and his sisters … that must have been interesting."

"I took them all to lunch first. We split three bottles of wine. It took most of the sharp corners off."

"Smart woman."

Christine nodded. "Anyhow, I got most of the back story, in bits and pieces. Daddy was a 'firm disciplinarian'. He was 'absolutely the head of the household, and what he said went'." She scowled. "It's all family code for 'we know he was an abuser, but he's dead now so we don't like to talk about it'. Except, of course, it's pretty much all they _can_ talk about." She shook her head. "Donnelly used Nicholas for everything official, school and the Bureau and whatever. All the legal stuff, because, you know, rules are rules. But when he had a choice, when it was private – he called himself Ellis." She waved her beer bottle in a vague salute. "So Ellis he shall remain."

_I worked with the man on and off for most of a year, and she knows way more about him than I do_, Carter thought bleakly. _Maybe because I was so busy lying to him, checking myself, that I never paid attention._

Suddenly his final ploy at Rikers, sending a presumably innocent and defenseless man into the prison yard to be beaten, took on a deeper meaning. She'd known it was wrong at the time, known it was out of character for Donnelly. But if he'd been beaten as a child, if he knew exactly what the man would feel, it revealed new depth to his desperation.

And he hadn't been wrong about Man's identity, after all.

She shook her head, hard. It was done. She'd played her part and she would have to live with it. It was over.

It still hurt.

"Did you ever sleep with him?" she blurted.

Christine's mouth pulled up at the corners, somewhere between a smile and a smirk. "Nope. Tried to. Never even got his shoes off."

"Huh." Carter wasn't even sure why she'd asked the question, but the answer was disappointing. She'd have liked to think Donnelly had been at least a little bit happy in the last months of his life.

"He couldn't get past thinking that I was protecting John," Christine continued.

That was new. "Were you?" Carter asked carefully.

"No. I just found him intriguing."

"Intriguing. That's a good word for him."

"You?"

"What?"

"Did you ever sleep with him?"

Carter stared at her. "No. We were strictly professional."

"Figures." Christine finished her beer, set the bottle down.

The detective wasn't sure whether Scotty was commenting on her inflexibility or Donnelly's. Or both. The whole conversation had her off balance. She hadn't expected to talk about the FBI agent tonight.

She hadn't let herself think about him much.

_She'd left him alone._

"You okay, Joss?"

Carter looked across the table. The hacker was looking at her intently, and the woman's blue eyes seemed to be seeing right through her. As if she knew everything that had happened that night. The bridge, the bitter disappointment in Donnelly's voice, and Carter's futile protests that John was helping people, that he was a good man …

She felt sick.

Inside, applause erupted as the movie evidently ended. Carter stood up, grateful for the disruption. "I should find the kids and get them home."

Christine stood up, too. "Yeah. I'm glad they could come. It's a fun movie. Better when you share it."

Carter hesitated. She felt disconnected, disoriented. To the hacker, the whole conversation had been small talk. She'd shifted to the next topic easily. But it had opened wounds in the detective. She felt like her emotions were raw, exposed. "I'm glad you went," Carter managed to say. "To the funeral. I'm glad … somebody went. I wish …" She stopped, shook her head.

"Joss?"

She shook her head quickly. "Nothing. Just … he was a good agent."

"He was a good friend."

Taylor came out of the café, with his arm around Tia's shoulders. "Hey, Mom."

"Hey." She forced a smile. "Ready to go?"

"Yep. Night, Scotty."

Tia chimed in, "Thanks for hosting this. It was fun."

"I'm glad you could come. Night, Joss." More young people came out, milling around. Scotty went inside to help deal with the remainder, who were crowding the bar, desperate for more coffee.

"Night," Carter called after her. She paused, thinking. Nicholas Ellis Donnelly was dead. And in the wake of his guilt, a bit of guilt, a funeral, a bunch of half-drunk women boxing up his things. A few old stories shared. And life went on, barely disturbed. Coffee and movies and teenage boys sneaking kisses in the shadows.

There should have been more, somehow. But even she had moved on, to other cases and other things.

Carter shook her head and followed her son and his girlfriend to the car.


	17. Chapter 17

The brothers got out of the cab just down the street from Day-by-Day. Finch waited for them on the sidewalk, with Bear beside him. Dylan greeted him; Hart, predictably, would not make eye contact, but he dropped to his knees to hug the dog.

Dylan looked back at the school. "You're sure it's safe for him to go back there?"

Finch nodded, with a small smile. "Quite safe. Lanoux Corp was eager to sell the facility in order to avoid any unpleasant consequences from their employment of Mr. Jackson. And Mrs. Day was more than happy to return to run the center, at least for the next few years. I assure you, Hart will be safe there."

"Good." Dylan nodded. "That's one problem down, then. And a hundred more to go."

Finch studied the young man for a moment, then looked at his brother. Hart had been looking at them, but quickly looked away. "I may have another solution or two up my sleeve," he said.

"If you know anywhere I could get a job …" Dylan said hopefully.

"Very well, we'll begin there." Finch produced a business card from his pocket. "The Coronet Hotel needs an assistant bookkeeper. Call there and ask to speak to the general manager. She's expecting to hear from you."

The boy smiled, then shook his head. "I'm not sure I'm qualified."

"You're smart enough to learn. You're reliable, dedicated. And you come highly recommended." He smiled to himself again. "The Coronet offers an employee tuition voucher program. I strongly urge you to take advantage of it. If you finish your degree, it will make you an even more valuable employee."

"I … but … thank you." Dylan put the card carefully in his pocket.

"Good. Next, then." Finch nodded toward the end of the block. A young black man was walking toward them. He had a German Shepherd beside him. The dog was on a leash, but like Bear it was merely a formality. When he got close enough, the dogs greeted each other with polite restraint.

One of the Shepherd's eyes was milky white. She moved with a slight but noticeable limp.

"Hello," Finch said easily. "Sergeant March, this is Dylan Roth and his brother Hart."

"Ronnie," March corrected gently. He stuck his hand out, and Dylan shook it awkwardly. The sergeant glanced at Hart, but made no more toward him; Finch had explained the situation. "It's nice to meet you both," he said. "This is Annie."

His dog sat politely at his side. Hart reached to pet her, then hesitated. "Can he?" Dylan asked.

"It's alright," March assured him. He remained watchful, but the dog was relaxed and willing to let Hart pet her.

Bear moved in and demanded his own share of the petting.

"Annie was injured last year in Afghanistan," Finch explained. "She's being retired as a military working dog."

"I was her handler, over there," March continued. "They let me keep her when we came home. But I'm being deployed again at the end of the month. So I need to find her a good home."

Realization dawned on Dylan's face, joy quickly replaced by regret. "Oh, we can't. Our apartment, and with my job and Hart …"

"It can all be arranged," Finch assured him. He gestured to a building on the other side of the street. "I'll show you."

Dylan looked at his brother, who was sitting on the sidewalk happily being nuzzled by both dogs. "But we can't …"

"You'll see," Finch promised. He led all of them across the street and up the steps of the apartment building. The door opened before they reached it, and an elderly woman with a cane in one hand and an excited Yorkie on her other arm greeted them. "There you are, finally," she said warmly. "Come on, come in."

Bewildered, Dylan herded his brother into the building. Finch handed Bear's leash to the young sergeant. Both bigger dogs expressed mild interest in the Yorkie, but sat calmly when he gestured. "I'm Mrs. Adams," the woman said brightly, "and this is my little Sunday. Couldn't you just eat her up? We live there." She pointed to the first door on the right. "And your apartment is here." She went directly across the hall and opened the first door.

"My …" Dylan stammered. He looked at Finch, wide-eyed. Harold merely nodded.

The apartment seemed spacious, partly because it was empty. The walls were freshly painted, the hardwood floor scrubbed clean. "There are two bedrooms," Finch said.

"And new smoke detectors, just like you asked," Mrs. Adams added.

"I can't … we can't …"

"I am so glad we found you," Mrs. Adams continued. "I didn't know what I was going to do about Miss Sunday when I have my surgery. Knee replacements, you know. Both of them. In the spring. I won't be able to walk her at all for a quite while. And even until then, when it snows I am always so unsteady. But strong young men like you, I know she'll be in good hands. Oh, and she will love having someone to walk with."

Hart sat on the floor again. Bear and Annie took up positions on either side of him. Unexpectedly, Mrs. Adams bent down and dropped the Yorkie into his arms. The little dog trembled in excitement, sniffing at the bigger dogs. Then she licked Hart's nose.

Finch could see Dylan go tense, get ready to rescue either the dog or his brother. Hart kept his head down, wouldn't make eye contact with the humans in the room. But he was perfectly fine with the excitable little dog and the much bigger animals.

"Sunday will need to be walked four times a day," Harold said calmly. "And I'm sure Annie would be glad to accompany her."

"Four … but if I'm working …"

"Hart can come over from the center and walk them at noon."

Dylan's jaw dropped. "I … don't know … if he …can. He's never done anything like that. By himself."

"Oh, don't worry," Mrs. Adams said. "I'll walk with him until my surgery. And you can go with him morning and night, until he knows the neighborhood. He'll get on just fine, I'm sure."

"And Annie will look after him," the young sergeant added. "We'll have time to work together before I deploy, so you'll know all her commands and routines."

"I … I just …" The young man finally stopped trying to talk. He walked to the front window and looked out.

Finch watched him, mildly concerned. It was quite a lot to pile on the boy all at once. A new job, a new apartment, a new dog. New responsibilities. A new landlady. Getting Hart adjusted to it all. Returning to college, sometime soon. And all this in the same week that someone had attempted to kill him. It was a lot.

For a moment Harold was afraid that Dylan would balk.

And then Hart giggled.

It was a very quiet noise, but it carried in the empty apartment. Finch looked at him. The Yorkie had her paws on his shoulder, and Annie was leaning over his back, licking at the little dog and getting Hart's ear in the process.

He looked up. Dylan was watching his brother, too. "Annie," he said, moving closer. "That's a nice name."

"She's a good dog," March said. "She's been a good partner. And a good friend." He took a deep breath. "I'm going to miss her. It would mean a lot to me, to know she's got a good home. She deserves it."

Dylan nodded. "You'd come and visit her, right? When you were home?"

The young sergeant smiled. "I'd like that."

"Good." Dylan gestured, a little uncertainly. "You'll know where to find us." He moved closer to his brother. "Hart? Is all this okay with you? It's a lot of change all at once."

Hart looked up at him. He looked around the apartment. He looked, only quickly, at Mrs. Adams. She beamed at him. Then he looked back at the German Shepherd, and at the Yorkie who squirmed in his arms. Finally he looked back at his brother. "Yes."

Dylan Roth sighed heavily. He seemed almost overwhelmed, and as if a great weigh had been lifted off him at the same time. "Okay," he breathed. "Okay."

Finch nodded in satisfaction. "Good." He smiled, just a little. And then a little more.

Annie, having inspected her new little pack mate to her satisfaction, sprawled on the floor next to Hart and grunted in satisfaction.

* * *

**1981**

John got out of the car. He looked around the big cemetery, then at the note he had from the groundskeeper. The front gate was so far away he couldn't even see it from here. But the little sign said D-15, so they were in the right place. He opened the back door and got the big white box out.

His mother got out, too. She walked to the grass on the north side of the little gravel road and began searching. "Here it is," she said, pointing. John walked up to join her.

It was a small headstone, white, simple. The ones on either side of it were bigger and gray. They were for adults, John supposed. For a boy like Johnny, just a little one would do.

His mother put her hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "Do you want me to leave you alone for a few minutes?"

John didn't know what to say. What the right thing to say was. He'd never been to a friend's grave before. Was that something people did, stayed alone at the grave? He didn't care either way, but if his mother was suggesting it, it was probably what he was supposed to do. "Yes, please."

"I'll just be down the row, then."

She started off slowly, careful in the thick grass. John watched her for a minute. Then he put the big box down and opened it. He felt clumsy, uncertain. He'd visited a friend in the hospital once. This was different, but maybe the same rules applied.

"I brought you some flowers," he said quietly, testing it out, seeing how it felt. "I would have brought them sooner, but nobody told me you were …" He paused, not wanting to be rude. But then, Johnny probably knew he was dead.

For a second, he could see his friend grinning at him, teasing him a little over being so stupid, but being nice about it. So they could laugh together.

"Nobody told me you were dead," he said with more confidence. "Nobody ever tells me anything."

He pulled the flowers out of the box and put then against the headstone. The stone completely disappeared under the red flowers and green leaves. John picked them up again and laid them length-wise on the grave. That was better.

"I asked for lots of red," he said to the flowers. "She sure did go overboard. I paid my own money, too." He thought about telling Johnny how he'd earned the money, mowing lawns, how sweaty he got, how much his calves hurt when he was done from pushing that heavy old mower. But Johnny'd never had a chance to push a dumb old mower. He kept his mouth shut about it.

But that left him with nothing to say.

"So, um."

He flopped down on the grass beside the headstone. He could tell him about school, he thought. About how girls were starting to notice him, and how Beth Spencer had written in her slam book that he had the most beautiful eyes ever. But again, that was all stuff that Johnny had missed. Johnny had missed everything.

"I wish we could still play checkers," he finally said. "Nobody has time any more. They think it's a baby game. Maybe we could learn to play chess. I bet you'd be good at it."

Johnny would never learn to play chess, either. Johnny would never be anything more than he'd been that last day of school. Never know any more. Never read any more books or solve any more math problems or learn to play chess. He was gone.

Maybe he was all better in Heaven. Maybe he could ride a bike and mow the grass and play chess and whatever else he wanted to do.

Maybe there weren't any mean kids to scare him and bully him up in Heaven.

That had to be true, John reasoned. No way there were bullies in Heaven. Or wheelchairs, either.

So probably it was better that Johnny had gone on. Maybe he hadn't made any friends in the new school he'd moved to. Maybe there hadn't been someone to look after him and keep the bullies away there. Maybe he'd been miserable and scared and alone. So maybe it was better.

But it didn't feel like it was better, even for Johnny. It felt like being alive was better. When you were alive you could learn stuff and go places and sing stupid songs and play checkers.

But maybe if you were in a wheelchair like Johnny had been, maybe it was better. Maybe Johnny would have said it was better.

Maybe, John thought, he should have found out where Johnny was moving to and gotten his mom to send him to that school, somehow, so he could looked after him. Maybe if he'd been there to protect him from the bullies like Tony and play checkers with him, maybe Johnny would have been happy and maybe he would have lived longer.

He didn't even know what Johnny had died from.

It was all way too confusing for John. It made his head hurt. The flowers smelled too sweet, like a thick cloud of perfume, and that made him feel a little sick, too.

"I wish you weren't dead," he finally said. He stood up and brushed the grass off his pants. He looked at the small white headstone and the bright red flowers. A couple of them were already starting to wilt just a little. In a week, he knew, they'd all be brown and falling apart and then someone would come and throw them away. But that didn't matter, really, because right now they were bright and red and red was Johnny's favorite color.

_Had been_ Johnny's favorite color.

John said, "I miss you, Johnny." Then he sort of waved, the way you wave when you know the other person won't wave back, and he went to find his mother.

* * *

**2013**

Two days and two blessedly easy Numbers passed before Reese heard from Christine. He had to exert a huge amount of willpower not to call her, and even more not to go out and get eyes on her. But he made himself do it. He understood that it was important. As important as letting her walk away from him that night had been.

He even managed to only ask Finch about her twice the first day and three times the second.

Finally, on Sunday afternoon, she called him. "You got time for an architectural consult?" she asked.

"A what?"

"Swing by the new place when you have time."

John had time then. He drove over to her new apartment building. It was still quiet, no construction workers, but when he let himself in the front door, Christine was waiting for him. She was sitting on a waist-high stack of lengths of finished wood. The entire ground floor of the building was covered with stacks of trim pieces, in various lengths and widths, neatly sorted, all beautifully, elaborately constructed, carved, detailed. Old. There were a dozen old doors ten-panel doors leaned against the far wall.

He wasn't sure what he'd been expected, but piles of vintage woodwork had not even made the list.

He could tell immediately that Christine was not under the influence of anything except perhaps her perpetual over-caffeination. He wasn't surprised. He did let himself be just a little relieved.

John strolled through the stacks, examining the pieces almost reverently. "This is quarter-sawn oak," he said. "Where in the world did you get it?"

"Architectural salvage from a tear-down in Harlem," she reported easily. "I got the whole lot for forty-seven grand, delivered."

"That's a steal."

"So I'm told."

"It's gorgeous." He picked up a shorter piece and ran his hands over it. It was heavy, tightly constructed, wider than his hand. "Trim for the apartment?" He looked around. Door framing. Crown moldings. Baseboards. Window trim. It was all there, and plenty of it. It would be beautiful.

"Maybe," Christine answered. "Bring that. Come upstairs."

He followed her up the stairs. No work had been done since the last time he'd been there. There was a drafting table, with blueprints and sketches on it. Christine led him to the front, where the framing was in for her computer room. "Here's the problem," she said. She took the trim piece from him and held it next to the framing for the doorway. It was so wide that it went past where the corner of the wall would be.

John could immediately see the larger problem, too: All that would trim would overwhelm the relatively small rooms in the proposed apartment. There would be practically no wall space, just the woodwork. It was beautiful, but it would make the rooms look cluttered, jam packed. Busy.

"I asked the foreman about ripping the pieces lengthwise," Christine said.

Reese stared at her, shocked.

"And he gave me exactly that look," she continued quickly, "and accused me of being a heretic, and then the workmen chased me with pitchforks and torches."

"Good," Reese said fervently.

She shook her head. "What is it with guys and old wood?"

He raised one eyebrow at her, but didn't answer.

"It's too big for the apartment," Christine said. "And I don't know how to fix that. Hence the consult."

"Make the rooms bigger," John answered simply.

"Yeah, I haven't really mastered that space-folding tesseract thing."

He paced the bare floor, considering. Then he went and looked over the blueprint. The original plan had been to build two apartments on the floor, one on the north side for her and one on the south side for his and Harold's potential use, both running from the front to the back of the building. "Forget the second apartment," he said simply. "We won't use it anyhow."

Christine started to protest.

"We won't," Reese repeated. "Finch has safe houses all over the city. If we need a place to stash a client, we'll use one of them. And if he or I need a place to stay, we'll just crash in your guest room."

"Oh." She looked a little disappointed, but she accepted his logic.

Reese picked up a pencil. "So. Keep his computer room here in the back. Keep the spare bathroom, maybe add a walk-in closet. Clothes for Harold, weapons for me. That, we'll use." He sketched quickly over the existing lines. "Then move this center hall over past the center line; that gives you another five feet or so. And move your computer room over to the south side in the front. This lets you move the living room up to the front, and all the other rooms get bigger front to back. Plus it gives you two walls with windows in the living room."

She looked over his shoulder and nodded. "This makes sense." She pointed to the wide empty space remaining in the center of the floor on the south side. "What do I do with this?"

He shrugged. "Leave it, for now. Use it for storage. Down the road, you can put a door here in this hallway, make it into bedrooms for the little ones or whatever."

"I do not actually anticipate little ones, thank you."

"Little Ingrams, maybe?" he suggested. "Whatever. Leave it for now. Put a closet behind your computer room, here, and a Scooby door to the dead space. Same thing back here with Harold's computers."

Christine nodded slowly. "This will work. I like this."

Reese looked around, envisioning the new space. It was going to be beautiful. "And you don't have to desecrate the wood."

She snorted. "Wood. Heh."

He grinned. "Let's get some dinner."

"Okay. Then you can drive me to the airport."

"You leaving town?" Reese asked carefully. "Where you going?"

She looked at him, bemused. "North Carolina. You bought me the ticket, remember?"

"I knew that." He'd totally forgotten the Christmas gift he'd given her, plane tickets and enrollment in a two-week tactical driving course. "I just … forgot it was this soon."

Christine grinned. She knew he'd forgotten. "Class starts tomorrow."

She rolled up the blueprints and took them with her. "I'll get notes to the architect from the airport," she said. "I can do them on-line; it speeds things up." They went out and locked the front door.

"Thank you," John said quietly.

She knew perfectly well what he was thanking her for, but she brushed it off. "For consulting? Thanks for your advice."

Reese simply nodded. There were things that didn't need to be said. He liked that she knew that. He liked, he realized, quite a lot of things about her. Top of the list, right now, was that she wasn't using heroin.

But a close second was that she'd let him see for himself that she wasn't. "What's the cascade?" he asked.

She raised one eyebrow, then shook her head. "We're not there, John."

"Had to give it a shot."

"Of course you did."

He opened the car door for her. "Do you think we'll get there some day?"

"You always have to push, don't you?"

"It's kinda my thing," Reese admitted.

"I want a really big steak for dinner."

* * *

When she got out of the car at the airport, Christine handed him a book. "I'm not sure this means anything," she said cryptically. "But it might."

John watched her walk into the terminal. Then he looked at the book. It was a fat paperback, used. A collection of the complete poems of Hart Crane. He opened it to the front notes, and the first words were enough to make the corners of his mouth twitch. The poet's full name was _Harold_ Hart Crane. There was a bookmark; he glanced up at the cop who was watching the white zone, but he hadn't noticed him yet. He flipped the book open.

The poem was called 'Exile,' and it was short:

_My hands have not touched pleasure since your hands, -  
No, - nor my lips freed laughter since 'farewell',  
And with the day, distance again expands  
Voiceless between us, as an uncoiled shell._

_Yet, love endures, though starving and alone._  
_A dove's wings clung about my heart each night_  
_With surging gentleness, and the blue stone_  
_Set in the tryst-ring has but worn more bright._

Reese closed the book, a little breathless. It was Harold's story, of course, written decades before Harold was born. He wondered if his Finch was aware of that little verse, if the poet had inspired his many names, Crane and Finch and Wren and Crowe and so many others. It was unlikely; Finch had chosen and used many of his names well before his tragic parting from Grace. Still, it hardly seemed likely to be coincidence, either. A puzzle, to add to the many puzzles of Harold Finch.

And there was this new puzzle, too: Did Christine know about Grace? It seemed unlikely that Finch would have volunteered that information, but the poem had been uncannily descriptive. Reese knew that the young woman knew about the Machine, about the library, about Root. But it had never occurred to him until that moment that she might know more about his partner than he did. For all he knew, she was Harold's closest confidant.

She might even know where he lived.

He was struck with a vague jealously, though he couldn't say which one he was more jealous of.

The cop tapped on the hood of his car. "Move it along, pal."

Reese nodded, put the book down and put the car in gear. He threaded the car into outbound traffic, still pondering.

He could just ask Finch, of course. But that wasn't his style. It took all the fun out of the puzzles. And Finch probably wouldn't answer. Not directly, anyhow. He could ask Christine. But he had the feeling she'd told him all she was going to, at least for now.

He felt very much like Bear at the moment, following his secretive cats around, his wounded introverts. Gratefully gobbling up the hints about their lives that they left for him. Crunching up the mouse heads they dropped in his bowl.

He scowled at himself in the rearview mirror. But he had only himself to blame. This is what came of consorting with cat people. There was a struggle to it, a balance. He would keep trying to drag them out for beer. They would keep swiping their claws across his nose. And in the end, one way or another, they would be curled up happily together.

John shook his head. There had been entirely too much poetry in his week, too much imagery. Too many memories, for him and for Christine and probably for Finch. He needed a little down time. He needed a day to just sleep and work out and rest. And to not think too much about cats and dogs and crunchy mouse heads.

His phone rang. He tapped at the speaker. "Hello, Finch," he said wearily.

"I know it's late, Mr. Reese," Harold said serenely, "but if you're done dropping Miss Fitzgerald off at the airport …"

"We have a new Number."

"And rather an urgent one, I'm afraid."

Reese looked at himself in the mirror again and smirked. Well, maybe he'd get his workout in, sometime, at least. "I'm on my way."

* * *

**The End**


End file.
